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passion ploweps 

AND THE 

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i>r ^ 

EMMA HOWARD WIGHT. 



“We are all men, 

In our own nature frail, incapable ; 

Ot our tteah, few are angela.” 

— SUAKSPBARK. 


Calendar Publishiko Co., 
Baltimore, Md. 

1891. 



06-370 




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CNTCREO ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1801/> 

BY 1. 

EMMA HOWARD WIGHT, ? • 

IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS AT^ASHINGTON 









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“When fierce conflicting passions urge 
The breast -where Peace was wont to glow, 
What mind can stem the stormy surge 
Which rolls the tide of human woe ? 

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A love we dare not own. ” 


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CHAPTER I 



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“ s'4^ ' 


PASSION FLOWERS 


AND THE 

CROSS. 

By Emma Howard Wight. 


“Who ne’er have loved, and loved in vain, 
Can neither feel nor pity pain.” 

Byron. 



HE great Baltimore Cathe- 
dral bell was ringing loudly 
on a certain March even- 
ing at a few minutes be- 
fore eight o^clock, and 
numbers of people were 
hurrying up the wide steps into the church. 
It was a few weeks before Easter, in the 
Lenten season, and a Mission by the Pas- 
sionist Priests was about to commence. 
5 


6 


PASSION FLOWERS 


The church was crowded, the aisles as well 
as the p^ws being closely filled, for the 
priest who was to deliver the opening ser- 
mon was widely celebrated for his wonder- 
ful powers of eloquence, and Protestants as 
well as Catholics flocked to hear him. 

The bell had ceased ringing, the organ 
pealed out, and altar-boys filed slowly in, 
followed by the priests of the Cathedral, 
the three Passionist priests, and, lastly, the 
Cardinal. There can be no question as to 
the picturesqueness of Catholic ceremonial. 
The white lighted altar outlined against the 
sombre draping of the Lenton season, the 
crimson cassocks and white surplices of the 
boys, the black garments of the priests, and 
the red sash and cap of the pale Cardinal 
made up a picture impressive, and filled with 
rich coloring. 

When the Cafdihal had mounted to his 
throne and the rest of the sanctuary were 
seated, one of the Passionist priests came 
forward and, after kneeling for a few 
moments at the foot of the altar, turned and 


AND THE CROSS. 


7 


ascended into the pulpit. There he stood 
for a little while silent and motionless while 
his intense dark eyes, from under their 
heavy brows, gazed steadily and keenly 
over the sea of upturned faces. He was tall 
and strongly built, and the long coarse black 
robe falling to his sandalled feet failed en- 
tirely to disguise the clean sweep of limb 
and otherwise splendid proportion of form. 

This robe was girded in at the waist with 
a rope, holding a crucifix in front and a large 
wooden rosary at the side. The cleans 
shaven face was pale with a dark, almost 
swarthy pallor, the features strongly marked, 
with a certain sternness in the compression 
of the lips in which a keen physiognomist 
would have read a strong guard and curb 
put upon intense passions, an asceticism won 
only after a great struggle. 

He began to speak. His voice at first low 
but so clear and vibrant as to penetrate to 
the utmost limits of the church, had a won*? 
derful sweetness and magnetic power which 
at once enchained the attention of every 


8 


PASSION FLOWERS 


man, woman and child present. *‘Come 
to Me all ye that are weary and heavy- 
laden and I will give ye rest.’’ Such the 
opening words, then he went on to speak of 
the joys and pleasures of life, feverish, 
short-lived, and sin-tainted, of its sorrows 
whicn wring and anguish the heart, and that 
peace can only be purchased here by re- 
sponding to the above divine invitation. 

Such was the tenor of the sermon, but the 
exquisite beauty of its language and con- 
struction cannot be treated justly here. The 
crowd within the church hung breathless 
upon every word, thrilling beneath the 
magic of that wonderful voice, now soft and 
low, tender and pleading, now ringing like a 
bugle-note through the vast length and 
breadth of the domed building. There was 
a wonderful grace in his slightest move- 
ment^ an infinite charm in each gesticulation 
which was like a soft melodious accompani- 
ment to the words which flow so easily and 
eloquently from his lips. In one of tbe 
pews almost.directly under the pulpit sat a 


AND THE CROSS. 


9 


woman whose face, beautiful with a fair 
pale beauty, gold-colored hair, and rich dark 
furs wrapping her full and singularly volup- 
tuous form from head to feet, made a strik- 
ing and conspicuous figure in the crowded 
church. 

Strangely, at the first sound of the priest’s 
voice, the languid weariness and listless 
indifference, which seemed a very part of 
her, vanished as though swept away by a 
magician’s wand. She leaned forward, her 
delicate scarlet lips half parted by the breath 
which fluttered over them, her great starry 
eyes fixed upon the strong dark face above 
her. They never wavered in that breath- 
less gaze, they widened and dilated, the per- 
fect lips trembled and quivered, and the furs 
over her breast were stirred by her quick- 
ened breathing. 

At length, very suddenly, the priest’s 
dark eyes drooped and fell upon that exqui- 
site face all alive with vivid intense feeling. 
Instantly the words faltered and died away 
on his lips, choked by a sudden strange 


10 


PASSION FLOWERS 


emotion so strong that it turned him weak 
and sick. The sea of upturned faces swam 
In a blur before him, leaving one only plain, 
distinct, like a white pearl, imprinting its 
fair beauty on his trembling, quaking soul. 
And she as she met that look sank back 
faint and weak, trembling through every 
fibre of her dainty body. Her eyes sank, 
the eyelids suddenly heavily weighted, but 
she listened, almost with bated breath, for 
the sound of his voice again. 

It came at last, a little tremulous at first, 
and to her ear at least subtlely changed. 
Rather abruptly he brought his sermon to a 
close. He descended from the pulpit and 
took his place among his brother priests. 
The sweat stood thickly on his brow, 
mechanically he passed his handkerchief 
over it as he knelt and then dropped his 
face down into his hands. He felt dazed, 
weak, confused, and yet every pulse in his 
strong frame was thrilling in unison with the 
rapid throbbing of his heart. Thus he knelt 
while the music swelled around him and the 


AND THE CROSS. 


II 


incense filled his nostrils. A great terror 
was on him, the like of which his life had 
never known before, that blanched his face 
and wrung a moan from his lips. Those lips 
were dumb and mute as he knelt there close 
by the altar. 

With one last peal the organ ceased, the 
kneeling crowd arose. She passed with the 
rest down the aisle. At the gates of the 
church stood her carriage. The footman 
held open the door. She entered and threw 
herself back on the soft cushions. 

Where to, madam?” asked the foot- 
man, standing with his hand on the door. 

‘‘Home,” was the answer. 

The footman shrugged his shoulders as he 
climbed up beside the coachman. He v/as 
well used to fine ladies^ caprices but this was 
rather an extraordinary one to start for a re- 
ception and end up at a church. 

And this visit to the church had evidently 
taken away all desire on his mistress’ part 
for lighter diversion. 

“Perhaps she intends turning Catholic, 


12 


PASSION FLOWERS 


he mused. ‘‘They often take to religion 
when they are tired of everything else.’’ 

Within she lay back heavily on the cush- 
ions. She was still thrilling with emotion 
so strong as to be almost physical pain. 
As yet she had hardly tried to analyze it. 

So many years had elapsed since any 
emotion had quickened her pulses or roused 
her jaded senses that the novelty was in it- 
self delight. She yielded herself to it with 
complete abandonment, panting under its 
strong power. Then a sudden fear came 
over her lest it should fade away leaving 
her life again vapid, insipid, weary and 
colorless. How pander to it, hold it, clasp it 
fettered to her ? For the first time its vague 
thrilling deliciousness took definite form. A 
strong, dark face, unlike any other face she 
had ever seen, rose before her, a voice of 
wonderful magnetic sweetness rang in her 
ears. She drew a long sighing breath and 
smiled dreamily, softly. 

That smile still lingered about her lips, 
the soft radiance in her eyes when, a little 


AND THE CROSS. 


13 


while later, she put aside the silken portieres 
which draped the doors of her own beautiful 
drawing-rooms and passed within. ’A tall, 
fair man sprang up from a low seat to meet 
her with a face grown suddenly passionate, 
tender, radiant. She looked at him, raising 
her perfect brows in faint surprise. 

*‘Ah, Bernard, when did you come ? 

“An hour or so ago.’^ 

He was beside her, holding her hands in 
his, gazing down into her face which had 
suddenly grown cold, weary and indifferent 
again. His blue eyes were all alight with an 
overpowering rush of passionate love which 
had driven all the color from his fair, almost 
boyish face. His lips quivered for a moment 
under his soft light moustache. 

“lam back again. Marguerite,” he said, 
“ I could not stay away, to tell you the truth. 
I felt I must-see — ” 

“Your ward, of course,” she interrupted 
him, with a slight cold laugh, slowly with- 
drawing her hands. Then she unloosened 
her furs letting them fall in a rich, dark heap 


14 


PASSION FLOWERS 


at her feet. He stooped and raised them, 
and, with a caressing, lingering touch, laid 
them on a divan. She had sunk into a low 
chair. He came and stood by the mantel, 
leaning his elbow on it and resting his head 
on his hand. A look of pain had crowded 
out the joy and radiance from his blue eyes. 
Almost a moan left his lips as he gazed 
down upon all her white loveliness which 
haunted him always, by day and by night, 
driving away peace and rest, maddening 
him with desire and longing, heaping fuel 
upon the fiercely burning flame of an un- 
quenchable passion. A passion which pos- 
sessed him body and soul and which nothing 
could kill, neither time nor absence, nor the 
soft smiles and softer looks of other women, 
fair and lovely though they might be, nor 
her never varying indifference, her languid, 
but most utter coldness. 

“You have seen Bertie, I suppose ? she 
asked, listlessly. 

“Yes,’' he replied, “I had him with me 
for over an hour. Poor little chap, I am 
afraid his life is a very lonely one.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


15 


She shrugged her shoulders ever so 
slightly. 

‘‘His nurses are instructed to do every- 
thing for his amusement and comfort,” she 
said, coolly. Then she raised her eyes and 
looked at him meditatively. “You are very 
fond of the child, Bernard,” she went on, 
“and you always appear to think him un- 
happy here, why do you not take him your- 
self.? I am sure he would be quite happy 
and contented with you. You are his guar- 
dian with the power I think to take him from 
me when you please. And even had you 
not 1 should make no objection to such an 
arrangement.” 

He looked at her very gravely and re- 
proachfully. 

“Marguerite, have you any affection at 
all for your child .? ” he asked. 

“No, I have not,” she answered, coolly, 
and quite unhesitatingly. “ I am not a 
woman who can love the child of the man 
she hated, the man whose lightest touch 
was infinite torture to her. To me Bertie is 


i6 


PASSION FLOWERS 


the living memory of a time of horror, agony, 
loathsomeness ; of a submission against 
which nature and all the womanhood in me 
revolted. Why should I love the fruit of 
that submission ? ” 

“Because you are a woman,” he said, 
“and all women love their innocent little 
children, no matter what have been their 
feelings towards the father of those chil- 
dren.” 

“Not all women, my dear Bernard. Did 
I not just tell you that I was an exception to 
that sweet and edifying rule ” 

“Oh, Marguerite ! ” he exclaimed, with a 
sudden outburst of pain, “are you really 
flesh and blood, or marble ? Have you the 
feelings, the passions of other women ? 
Could you ever love as they love ? ” 

She drew a quick breath and a faint flush 
of color rose in her fair, white cheek. 

“Love! Bernard,” she repeated, “what 
is it ? Describe it to me.” 

The sudden thrill and tender softness of 
her low voice made his heart bound and 
beat quickly. 


AND THE CROSS. 


^7 


“Love, Marguerite,” he murmured, trem- 
ulously, “if it be a happy love, is a dream 
of bliss, of rapture, of ecstasy. A dream be- 
cause the whole world is transfigured, all is 
beautiful, covered with a rose-colored veil 
which sheds its soft glow over even the most 
unlovely. The world has become a paradise, 
heaven lies in the eyes, in the soft, sweet 
words, in the passionate caresses, in the 
dear arms of the one loved.” 

He had left the mantel and was bending 
over her, his lips nearly touching her gold- 
colored, perfumed hair. She leaned a little 
forward, listening with half-parted lips and 
her bosom rising and falling quickly under 
the filmy lace which but half concealed it. 
But the room was only dimly lighted with 
softly-shaded lamps and as she sat half in 
shadow he could not see the emotion which 
stirred and thrilled her. 

“ Such is a happy love,” he went on, his 
voice falling a little. “ But, oh. Marguerite, 
the torture, the agony of a love unhappy, 
unreciprocated. The impotent despairing 


i8 


PASSION FLOWERS 


longing, the passion thrown back upon itself, 
the thirst, the craving for response, the mad- 
dening agony of giving all, all, and getting 
nothing. Marguerite ! Marguerite — ” 

But she rose up suddenly, looking almost 
impatiently into his moved and agitated 
face. 

‘‘There, Bernard, she said, quietly, “I 
did not ask you for that side of the question. 
I do not care to hear it.” 

“Probably not,” he replied, gloomily, 
“coming as it does from one who has bit- 
terly experienced its agony and its torture. 
I would to God I could keep away from you, 
Marguerite, I am mad, I think, to come within 
reach of your maddening beauty, your indif- 
ference, your coldness, and your cruelty.” 

“I do not think I have any desire to be 
cruel to you,” she said, coolly, “ and I cer- 
tainly do not intend to be so to myself by 
marrying for the scond time a man I do not 
love.” 

“You cannot live,” he repeated, in a 
fever of anguished impatience, “you are 
made of marble, feelingless, passionless.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


19 


He moved towards the door. 

** Are you going ? she asked. 

‘‘Yes/^ he replied, with a sudden weari- 
ness in his voice, “I must go now. I am 
putting up at Rennert^s, as usual. I will 
be round in the morning to take Bertie out 
riding, that is, if you have no objection.’^ 

‘‘None in the world,’’ she said, with a 
faint smile. 

“Then goodnight,” and he was gone 
without even touching the white hand she 
held out to him. She smiled a little coolly 
and let her hand fall lightly against the vel- 
vet of her gown. She sank back in the 
chair, her eyes grew soft and dreamy, her 
bosom rose and fell in a long, faint sigh. 

“Feelingless, passionless,” she repeated, 
“ah, so I thought until — 1 — I have found 
my heaven if it can be reached.” 

In the meantime the man who had left 
her started up the street at a quick, swift 
pace. He went in an opposite direction 
from his hotel. The cold air seemed to cool 
a little the fever of passion and pain which 


20 


PASSION FLOWERS 


possessed him, and the exercise to ease the 
anguished throbbings of his pulses. The 
city clocks were striking eleven. 

“I am mad to come here,” he muttered, 
‘‘the pain heaven knows is always hard 
enough to bear, but it is far more bitter, 
more torturing when I am in her presence, 

• and when I leave her like this. God! if I 
could but uproot this love from my heart, 
but I cannot, I might as well try to tear out 
that very heart itself for this passion is en- 
twined about its very tendrils. I feel that 
I must always desperately love her, this 
cold, cruel woman who, alas, will love me 
never.” 

His thoughts went back, as they often 
did, to the beginning of his passion for Mar- 
guerite Loring. He and her husband had 
been college-chums and afterwards close 
friends until Bernard went abroad where 
he remained four years. During his ab- 
sence John Loring married, and when Ber- 
nard at length returned to his. home in New ^ 
York he heard a great deal about the beauty 


AND THE CROSS 


21 


of Loring’s wife, and also heard it openly 
discussed that she had married him for his 
money alone. Bernard who had still much 
affection for his friend felt very bitter to- 
wards the woman who evidently made no 
secret of the fact that she had married him 
for his wealth. It was a disinclination to 
meeting her which prevented his going to Bal- 
timore to see his old friend. Then one day, 
to his astonishment and horror, a telegram 
came summoning him to Loring’s death-bed. 
He made all haste to obey it and arrived 
only a few hours before Loring died. He 
learned on his arrival that the dying man 
had been thrown while driving, sustaining 
internal injuries which must necessarily 
prove fatal. 

Bernard was shocked and grieved to be- 
hold the man whom he had last seen in the 
full vigor and strength of manhood lying 
white and weak on his pillow, gasping out 
his life. His haggard face lighted up at the 
sight of Bernard, and he held out his hand, 
whispering, “Thank you so much, old fel- 


22 


PASSION FLOWERS 


low, for coming to Then he signified 

his desire to be alone with Bernard. The 
two doctors and nurse who were in 
the room, withdrew. Bernard, on his en- 
trance, had looked around for the wife but 
she was not there. 

“Gray,"’ the dying man said, as soon as 
they were alone, “I have sent for you to 
tell you that I have made you my child’s 
guardian, with absolute authority over him 
above any one else, and to ask you if you 
would undertake the charge.” 

Bernard looked surprised and rather em- 
barrassed. 

“You know, Loring,” he said, after a 
few moments, “that I am more than willing 
to do anything in my power for you. But 
in this case 1 should be doing a wrong to the 
mother of your child, and your wife who 
most certainly has the first right to her 
child. And—” 

“Oh, I know all you would say,” inter- 
rupted the dying man, while a look of pain 
passed over his colorless face, “but this is a 


AND THE CROSS. 


23 


different case, and the ordinary and, yes, 
natural laws, cannot apply to it. Margue- 
rite does not love her child and I have made 
you his guardian feeling sure you would 
watch over and cherish him for the sake of 
our old friendship.’^ 

“Do you mean to say,” cried Bernard, 
incredulously, “that your wife does not love 
her own child ?” 

“I have told you only the sad truth, 
Bernard, she does not for he is my child 
also, and she never loved me. If I had not 
forced upon her the obligations of a wife she 
perhaps would not have grown to loathe 
me. But I loved her so madly and she was 
mine. That mad love sucked out the 
strength to give up the rights the law gave 
me even though I knew that every enforce- 
ment of them only added to the intense 
hatred she bore me. Sometimes her dumb 
shrinking, her shuddering coldness, under 
my caresses turned me into a fiend, and I 
ventured upon her an intensity of passion 
which had in it the cruelty and relentlessness 


24 


PASSION FLOWERS 


of a wild beast. I tried to forget that I 
loved her, to feel only that I hated her, and 
that her white beauty was all mine. Then 
again when I saw the loathing, the dread, 
the mute, passionate protest in her eyes, 
(she never gave expression to her feelings 
In words or tears as other women would 
have done) I would rush from her presence 
and plunge into every excess to drown my 
misery and my torture, to creep back again 
and crouching at her feet, implore her for- 
giveness, whine like a dog for one kind 
word, one gentle look, only to see her eyes 
look down upon me with utter scorn, loath- 
ing and hatred.” 

• The dying man paused exhausted and lay 
back white and panting. Bernard laid his 
hand gently and pityingly on his arm. 

'^There,” he said, ‘^do not agitate your- 
self, do not think of these things now.” 

“I shall soon be done with them all,” 
was the quiet answer, '‘she will be free of 
me, and I should be very glad to go, for life 
is only torture, were it not for my poor 


AND THE CROSS. 


2$ 


little child. But I leave him in your hands, 
Bernard, I know you will do all for his hap* 
piness. I do not mean for you to take him 
away from her, unless you should be forced 
to do so for his good, but only to watch over 
him, for he is motherless, as he will be 
fatherless, to brighten his life, poor little 
chap. You will do this for my sake, Ber- 
nard ? ” 

‘‘ I will,'^ was the solemn, fervent answer, 
and the weak hand, fast losing its hold on 
all things earthly, and the strong one met in 
a close firm grasp. 

A little later, at Boring’s request, they 
brought his child to him. A toddling thing 
of three, with the dark eyes of the father 
and a mass of curls, gold-colored, like the 
hair of the mother, falling on his shoulders. 
With a shout of delight he clambered up on 
the bed, kissed his father, put his little 
pink cheek against the cold white one, and 
wanted to know when papa was coming 
down to play with him some more. 

Bertie’s been oo’ lonely,” he added, 
with a pathetic ring in his baby voice. 


26 


PASSION FLOWERS 


Loring’s lips quivered, he spoke some sooth- 
ing words to the child, kissed him passion- 
ately, and then murmured, in a feeble voice, 
to Bernard. 

‘‘Take him away now, and be good to 
him. I named him for you, in memory of 
our friendship. Try to make his life bright, 
poor little chap.** 

Bernard carried the child outside and gave 
him to his nurse. When he returned he 
saw that Loring was going fast. 

“Marguerite!** he gasped, looking with 
hungry, entreating eyes into Bernard’s face. 
“ I want Marguerite.” 

Bernard turned at once to go for her. 

“Be quick,” one of the doctors whispered, 
as he passed out. 

He met Mrs. Loring’s maid in the corridor. 

“Your mistress, where is she ? ** he asked. 

The maid’s eyes fell. 

“My mistress is not well, monsieur,” she 
replied, quietly, “and at present she is 
sleeping.” 

“Then awaken her at once,” said Ber- 


AND THE CROSS. 


27 


nard, curtly and sternly, “and tell her to 
come immediately to her husband. He has 
only a few minutes to live and he wishes to 
see her.” 

The maid bowed, still with downcast 
eyes, and flitted by him. Bernard 
hastened back to the death-chamber. Lor- 
ing was almost gone. His dim eyes turned 
upon Bernard with a wistful, hungry look 
the latter never forgot. 

“I have sent for her,” he whispered, 
soothingly, as he bent over the bed, “she 
will come soon.” 

The poor, white face lighted up, the long- 
ing eyes Watched the door. But the last 
few precious minutes of that ebbing life slip- 
ped by and still she did not come. 

“Marguerite! Marguerite!” the white 
lips whispered, faintly once again, and a mo- 
ment later all was over. 

“Tell Mrs. Loring she need not come 
now, it is too late,” Bernard heard the doc- 
tor say to the nurse, and his heart grew 
even bitterer towards the cruel, relentless 


28 


PASSION FLOWERS 


woman who refused to comfort, even with 
her presence, the last few moments on earth 
of the man who had sinned against her only 
in loving her far too well. 

A little later in the day he was summoned 
to Mrs. Loring^s boudoir. As he entered the 
dimly, lighted, perfumed room, with its white 
and gold hangings, a woman rose up slowly 
from a low chair to meet him. Her long, 
black, trailing robes brought out vividly the 
white beauty of her face and the dead gold 
of her hair. This beauty and the subtle 
charm which was a part of her, caused Ber- 
nard to stand for a moment motionless and 
dumb. First a great pity surged up in his 
heart for the man lying dead below, who 
had loved this woman in vain, and as 
quickly gave way to a sudden rush of 
hatred towards him as he saw the utter 
weariness in the lovely shadowed eyes and 
about the perfect lips, and thought of the 
brutal passion which the dying man had 
confessed forcing upon her. 

**l am glad that he is dead,*' he muttered 


AND THE CROSS. 


29 


fiercely to himself, and then shocked and 
amazed at his own strange feelings sprung 
so suddenly to life, he added, *‘his torture 
is over at least. For again came the 
thought what torture it must be to love this 
woman and win no return. 

She came forward a little and held out to 
him her white, jeweled hand. 

** Ah, Mr. Gray, I have sent for you to 
thank you for all your kindness. 

As he took her hand in his, while a 
strange thrill ran through him at the con- 
tact, he looked at her keenly. There was 
not the slightest trace of any emotion on her 
beautiful face, not the faintest pretense of 
grief or even regret. Only that utter weari- 
ness and languid indifference. 

“She is at least no hypocrite,’^ Bernard 
thought, and then he said aloud, “I have 
really done nothing, madam. I only wish 
that something had been in my power.” 

“ Oh,” she replied, languidly, as she sank 
down into her chair, “it was kind of you to 
come and also to accept the charge Mr. Lor- 
ing imposed upon you.” 


30 


PASSION FLOWERS 


She spoke with utter indifference and 
without the faintest inflection of injury or 
sarcasm, but Bernard’s fair face flushed. 

“I hope you will believe,” he murmured, 
” that it was with the greatest reluctance I 
infringed upon your rights.” 

For the first time a faint smile touched her 
lips. 

“Pray do not let that worry you. I as- 
sure you the arrangement meets with my 
entire approval,” she said. “I only hope 
you will not find it a great bore.” 

“I could never find it that,” replied Ber- 
nard, earnestly. . “Your husband and my- 
self were college-chums and afterwards, al- 
ways friends, though of late years we have 
not seen much of each other. His child 
could not be otherwise than a sacred trust to 
me and one it will always give me pleasure 
to fulfil.” 

“Yes?” and she leaned backed more lan- 
guidly in her chair. Bernard saw that the 
subject wearied her. He learned soon that 
there were very few subjects which did not 
weary hero He arose. 


AND THE CROSS. 


31 


‘‘You will stay for the funeral, of course,’^ 
she said, “ and as my guest? I have given 
orders to my servants to see to your com- 
fort ; and thus Bernard found himself dis- 
missed. He had gone into that boudoir with 
a stern face and bitter indignation in his 
heart against the woman who had been the 
wife of his dead friend, he left it in a state 
of desperate infatuation which made him 
feel humiliated and ashamed, and yet against 
which he was even powerless to struggle. 
This infatuation ripened into intense pas- 
sionate love before he had seen his friend’s 
widow half a dozen times. 

The one hope and desire of his life was to 
win her for his wife. For one year loyalty 
to his dead friend kept him silent, though 
his mad love was patent to the whole world, 
then one day he flung himself at her feet, 
with a rush of wild, passionate words, and 
besought her to become his wife. She in- 
terrupted his outbreak with undisguised im- 
patience and distaste. 

“My dear Bernard,” she said, coldly, why 


32 


PASSION FLOWERS 


will you be so foolish and annoy me in this 
way ? I rather enjoy having you for a friend, 
but you surely must know that I do not love 
you, and have spared both yourself and me 
this disagreeable scene. But, there, forget 
all this folly.” 

Forget I Bernard almost laughed aloud at 
the words. Forget what had become a part, 
nay, the whole of his life. She might as 
well have told him to tear out his heart by 
the roots. It was three years ago since he 
went out from her presence with all the 
world grown suddenly dark. Three years 
of torture and pain unlighted by the faintest 
gleam of hope. Well he knew that this 
beautiful, cold, weary woman would never 
be his, would never love him, but he was 
powerless to overcome his mad love for her, 
or stay away from her. The whole world 
only held for him this one woman, whom he 
could not win. 

All this retrospect hau Drought him to 
Boundary avenue, and beginning to feel 
somewhat tired he turned and retraced his 


AND THE CROSS. 


33 


steps. As he reached the house he had 
quitted a short time before, a carriage drove 
up to the adjoining one, and a young girl 
sprang out, followed by an elderly lady, both 
were in evening dress, and as the electric 
light from the corner fell on the girl's pretty, 
fair face, Bernard stepped to her side. 

^^Good evening, ladies,’^ he said, with 
a smile, uncovering his head. 

They both started, then the blood mounted 
to the roots of the girl’s brown hair. 

‘'Why, Mr Gray ? ” she exclaimed, while 
her blue eyes lighted and she looked up into 
his face with a soft but radiant smile, 
‘^where did you drop from, the skies ? ” 

“Oh, no,’* he replied, laughing, “I hail 
from a place which is, I am afraid, the very 
antipodes of the skies. New York. At 
least I came from there this afternoon. At 
this present moment I am returning from a 
walk.*’ 

“Have you not seen Mrs. Coring } ” asked 
the girl, a little gravely. “She was to have 
been at Mrs. Grear’s reception, but she did 
not come.’* 


34 


PASSION FLOWERS 


“Did she not?^^ replied Bernard. “She 
returned home about ten o’clock from where 
I do not know. By the way, Baltimore is a 
very naughty place not to cease its dissipa- 
tions during Lent. Now it strikes me I re- 
ceived an invitation from a certain young 
lady of my acquaintance to a reception and 
ball to take place, let me see, ah, yes, in 
three days from now.” 

“I really could not help it,” said the girl, 
laughing. * ‘ The season has been so crowded 
I could not get mine in before. But you 
will come, Mr. Gray, will you not ? ” look- 
ing up eagerly into his face. 

“Its much against my religious principles, 
you know,” he replied, with a smile, “but, 
alas, for the weakness of us poor mortals, I 
think I shall come.” 

A bright, happy smile parted the girl’s lips, 
and at that moment the elder lady said: 

“My dear Fern, you and Mr. Gray will 
have to finish your conversation Thursday 
night. I am getting rather chilled standing 
here.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


35 


“We are very selfish, my dear Mrs. 
Howard,’^ said Bernard. “You must for- 
give us. And now I will bid you both good 
evening, or, good morning would be more 
correct, I think,” he added, as the City Hall 
clock struck one. He raised his hat and 
passed on. With the happy smile still on 
her lips the girl followed her mother into the 
house. Mrs. Howard glanced furtively at 
her flushed, radiairt face with troubled, half 
angry eyes, and, later, when she had been 
undressed and her maid was gone, slipped 
on a dressing-gown, and went towards her 
daughter's room. 

“ I must open her eyes to the truth,” she 
murmured to herself. “The longer she is 
blind to it the more bitter her awakening, 
and the greater her future suffering.” 

She found Fern sitting before the fire in 
her white night-dress with her pretty hair 
falling all loose about her shoulders. She 
looked so young, so fair, so girlish, and, alas, 
so happy, with the dreamy look in her gray 
eyes, that the mother’s heart failed her and 


36 


PASSION FLOWERS 


the words she had come to speak died away 
on her lips. She bent over the girl and 
kissed her very tenderly. 

'"It is very late, darling,’’ she said, “why 
do you not go to bed ? ” 

“ I was seeing visions in the fire, mamma,” 
answered the girl, with a happy, dreamy 
smile up into her mother’s grave-troubled 
face. 

‘‘Visions that in the morning will be 
ashes,” answered her mother, bitterly, and 
she saw a long, deep sigh heave the girl’s 
soft breast and a startled look come into her 
eyes. 

“There, dearest,” she went on, gently 
and tenderly,” go to bed. Sleep will be 
better for you than seeing visions In the 
fire Good night.” 

She kissed her fondly, and, with a smile. 
Fern arose and let her mother tuck her in 
bed just as she used to do when she (Fern) 
was a little child. She little guessed how 
heavy that mother’s heart was as she 
thought of the pain which must soon come 


AND THE CROSS. 


37 


to her child. That tortured, shamed pain 
of the woman who has given her heart in 
vain. 









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CHAPTER II. 


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4 


4 



II. 

The following morning, at about half-past 
ten, Bernard rode up to Mrs. Loring’s 
house. He found Bertie already mounted 
on his pony awaiting him. As the child 
grew older his likeness to his dead father 
had become more marked. The only thing 
about him like the mother were the beauti- 
ful curls of dead gold which were still al- 
lowed to fall loose on his shoulders. He 
was a handsome, sturdy little fellow, and he 
greeted Bernard with a shout of delight. 
There was a deep affection between the 
man and the child. 

“Here you are, dear Mr. Gray,’^ cried 
the latter, joyously, “I have been sitting 
here on Jock for some time waiting for you. 
You can go now, Jim,“ to the groom who 
was holding the pony, “we shan’t need 
you this morning. Where shall we go, Mr. 
Gray, to the park ? ” 

41 


42 


PASSION FLOWERS 


Bernard hardly heard him. Mrs. Loring’s 
carriage was before the door and he was 
watching her as she came slowly down the 
steps, wrapped in her furs. She smiled 
as Bernard bared his fair head, and, coming 
forward, paused and laid her hand on the 
pony’s head. 

*Mt was kind of you to give Bertie this 
pony,” she ' said, 'Mt is quite a lovely 
thing.” 

She hardly glanced at the small figure on 
the pony’s back, and the child had grown 
suddenly silent and shy, as he always did 
in her presence. 

*'Are you not out rather early this morn- 
ing ” asked Bernard. She drew back a lit- 
tle, letting her hand fall from the pony’s 
neck. 

*‘Yes, I believe that I am,” she replied 
indifferently, ‘‘and now I’ll not detain you 
any longer. Good morning.” 

She smiled again and swept away to her 
carriage. She spoke to the footman as she 
entered, but in so low a tone that Bernard 


AND THE CROSS. 


43 


did not catch the order that she gave. He 
watched the carriage as it dashed away, 
then, with a low sigh, turned towards the 
child. 

‘‘Well, little chap, we’ll be off now. 
Where shall it be, the park ? 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Gray,” replied the child, 
his face brightening again, “it will be aw- 
fully jolly there this morning, and we will 
have a race.” 


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CHAPTER III 



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III. 


“ Remember thou that dargerous hour.” 

‘‘Father, there is a lady in the Cardinal’s 
parlor who is waiting for you.” 

Such was the message which greeted 
Father Faber, the Passionist priest, as he 
passed into the hall of the Cardinal’s resi- 
dence after the morning services were over, 

“ A lady } ” He paused and looked at the 
man as though he did not understand. 

“Yes, Father. She gave no name or 
card, for she said you did not know her,” 
was the reply. 

The priest inclined his head and passed 
on in the direction of the parlor. He paused 
for a moment with his hand on the knob of 
the door. His face looked very haggard. in 
the strong morning light. Then he turned 
the knob and entered. A woman, with a 
beautiful fair face, gold-colored hair, and 
heavy dark furs wrapped about ner, rose up 

47 


48 


PASSION FLOWERS 


to meet him. She moved a little towards 
him and then paused. A subtle delicate per- 
fume was wafted to his nostrils. Was it 
that which turned him sick and faint for a 
moment. 

‘'Madam/* he said, abruptly, “you de- 
sired to see me ? ** 

She smiled faintly at the sound of his 
voice and her breath came a little quicker 
over her perfect lips. 

“Yes,’* she answered, gently, “you will 
pardon me if I am somewhat unceremo- 
nious, will you not.? I — I listened to you 
last night and I came to you to-day. Why .? 
I do not think that I really know myself. 
I am not of your faith, I have no religion, my 
life is very weary, very empty. Perhaps 
that is why I came.** 

“It is my office, madam, to administer to 
the weary and the miserable. What can I 
do for you ? ** 

His voice broke out strained and hoarse. 
The same strange terror and stranger emo- 
tion which had seized him when he first saw 


AND THE CROSS. 


49 


her face, upturned to his in the crowded 
church, were again upon him. He stood, a 
tall, dark, sombre figure, with arms tightly 
folded across his breast. She raised her 
eyes to his for a moment, then they fell 
heavily. 

‘*Let me tell you something of my life,^* 
she said, softly, wifh a caressing intonation 
in her low voice. ** Eight years ago I mar- 
ried, for his money, a man I did not love. 
I knew quite well that I had no love to give 
him, I did not know how I should loathe 
and hate him when marriage had given me 
over into his hands. For four long years 
life was torture and then he died, but it was 
too late. All my youth, my power to en- 
joy, all hope even, seemed to have died in 
those four years of loathsome submission 
to the obligations of my hated marriage 
bond. All flavor had gone from life, all 
power to love, all men as lovers were hate- 
ful to me. At least so I thought until — Last 
night I was driving by the Cathedral on my 
way to a reception, I heard the bell, I saw 


50 


PASSION FLOWERS 


the lights, the people passing in, and sud- 
denly an intense desire came over me to 
enter also. I yielded to it, I passed into the 
church, I saw you, I listened to your voice, 
and since then my life has changed, its 
grayness has become rose-hued, my numbed 
senses, ray sleeping soul, my dull pulses 
have suddenly awakened, sprung into a 
life of vivid intensity which is almost pain, 
which— 

“Hush,” he cried, harshly interrupting 
her. “Woman, why do you say this to 
me ? ” 

“Because a stronger power than even 
my will is forcing it from my lips,” she an- 
swered, with trembling lips. “ That power, 
call it Fate, or what you will, which has 
brought us so strangely together, despite all 
barriers. It is useless to struggle against it 
for it is stronger than all else.” 

She moved yet nearer to him and laid her 
hand, from which she had drawn the glove, 
upon his arm. On the dark, coarse black 
of his robe it looked like a piece of tinted 


AND THE CROSS. 


51 


ivory, the diamonds on the white fingers 
flashing in the sunlight, which lay in a 
golden bar across the priest’s breast. She 
lifted up her face, with its lily bloom, and 
her eyes, heavy with soft passion, sought 
his. A shudder went through and through 
all his strong frame. 

** Woman, do not tempt me,” he whis- 
pered, hoarsely, with colorless lips, and his 
dark hair damp with the sweat which stood 
in great drops on his brow. ‘‘Some awful 
power has suddenly enthralled me. Leave 
me, have mercy, and tempt me no more.” 

The white hand moved slowly along the 
coarse, black sleeve until the dainty soft 
fingers twined themselves about the strong 
ones knotted across his breast. He shivered 
at their touch. 

‘‘Would you have me go,” she whis- 
pered, ‘‘when we love, ah, when we love ? 
That is the power which enthralls you as it 
has enthralled me. Why fight against it 
when to y’eld means bliss, untold delight 
1 hink of the heaven, not that far-off, vague, 


52 


PASSION FLOWERS 


unreal heaven of which the virtuous prate 
and for which you strive, but one real, near, 
full of untold rapture which awaits us and 
which we may only enter together. Ah, 
dearest, do you know 1 have never loved 
before, and last night at the first sound of 
your voice there seemed to leap into life in 
my heart suddenly one great, wild tumult 
of passionate love. It is Fate, for when you 
looked into my eyes your own heart an- 
swered and you trembled and grew weak 
and pale under the overpowering rush of 
feeling which shook us both. Dearest, we 
cannot resist it, to yield is bliss.” 

She moved yet nearer to him. He could 
feel the pressure of her body against his 
own as she swayed towards him. A low, 
inarticulate cry left his lips. The folded 
arms were unclasped and fell about her. 
Her fair head lay against the coarse, black 
of the rough robe and she smiled, while she 
trembled, as the shaven lips crushed hers, 
drowning, against their rose-sweetness, the 
moan which burst from his tortured soul. 


AND THE CROSS. 


53 


The next moment he had thrown her 
roughly from him, holding her off by her 
delicate wrist with his strong hand until she 
nearly cried out with pain. His dark eyes, 
sombre and heavy with agony, looked 
a mute, anguished reproach into hers, 
his white lips quivered and trembled. Then 
suddenly he threw her hand from him, his 
lips moved but no sound came from them, 
the next moment he had turned and rushed 
from her presence. She gazed at the door 
through which he had disappeared and a sob 
rose in her throat. 

‘‘So cruel to me,” she murmured, ‘"but 
he shall be kind.” 





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■: ;■■ i',-A ifiAi ■■ 




CHAPTER IV. 


IV. 


“To dream of Joy, and wake to sorrow 
Is doomed to ail who love or live.** 

On Thursday evening, Bernard arrived 
at the Howards^ about ten o^cIock. Fern 
flushed, and her eyes brightened and then 
drooped as he came up to her. She looked 
very fair and sweet in her white, dainty 
robes, but he was blind to her girlish beauty, 
as he was blind to the love-light in her eyes 
and the love-flush on her cheek. 

“Will you give me some dances?^’ he 
asked, bending over her fair little hand. 
With a smile she handed him her ivory tab- 
lets. Her face clouded a little when he 
gave them back to her. He had only 
taken two dances — a waltz and a quadrille. 
She had been looking forward all day to 
dancing with him as the greatest joy the 
evening could bring her, and now he had 
only taken one pitiful waltz. ' She did not 

57 


58 


PASSION FLOWERS 


count the quadrille, for she hated quadrilles, 
unless one happened to have a partner one 
did not care for particularly, and then it did 
not much matter. As it was — 

Bernard was still standing beside her, when 
looking up into his face she saw a sudden 
change pass over it, which made her heart 
leap. The color flushed it in a swift, red 
^low, an eager ardent look leaped to his 
eyes. So she had seen him look often iri 
her dreams. Following his gaze she saw 
that Mrs. Loring was just entering the room. 
A shock of pain which was half bewilder- 
ment shot through her heart, and for the 
first time in her happy, untroubled life, she 
was conscious of a feeling of envy and 
jealousy of another woman’s beauty as she 
gazed, with a new interest, at all the white 
loveliness of Marguerite Loring, as she 
moved slowly up the room, her dress of 
ivory satin falling in soft folds about her 
voluptuously beautiful form, diamonds glit- 
tering on her exquisite naked arms and neck 
and in the gold-hued hair. 


AND THE CROSS. 


59 


‘‘How beautiful Mrs. Loring looks,” she 
said, in a little cold voice, from which the 
bright girlish ring had suddenly died, look- 
ing up again into her companion’s face. 
“But — but do you admire that style of 
beauty very much?” 

He smiled at the question. 

“Do I admire that style of beauty?” he 
repeated. “I think she is the most beauti- 
ful woman I ever saw in my life.” 

She shrank back at his words and a dazed 
look of pain came into her gray eyes. He 
had almost forgotten her presence and was 
gazing across the room to where a crowd of 
men had gathered about Mrs. Loring. At 
length he turned to Fern. 

“Will you excuse me. Miss Howard, I 
wish to speak to Mrs. Loring?” he said. 

She did not speak but simply inclined her 
head. She watched him with fascinated, 
dilated eyes as he strode across the room 
and made his way to Mrs. Loring. And as 
he bent over that lady’s ivory shoulder the 
truth burst fully upon the girl. Fool ! she 


6o 


PASSION FLOWERS 


thought, how blind she had been not to 
have seen it long ago. She stood like a 
statue watching them, all the pretty pink 
color had died out of her face, leaving it as 
white as her pretty, soft dress, her fingers 
closed about the pink roses she held until 
the thorns pierced her fingers, but she was 
unconscious of the pain. She had given 
the first love of her girlhood in vain, and 
was learning the bitter lesson which comes 
to all humanity’s children, sooner or later, 
the lesson of suffering. 

‘‘ Fern, child, what is it?” said her mother, 
coming up and laying her hand on the girl’s 
slim, pretty arm. ‘‘ Darling, are you sick?” 

She guessed instinctively what knowledge 
had come to her darling, to blanch her face 
and drive the brightness out of her eyes, 
and her heart was full of bitterness against 
the man bending over another woman across 
the room. 

‘‘Oh, no, mamma, I am not at all sick,” 
answered Fern, turning her pale, stricken 
face towards her mother. And then she 


AND THE CROSS. 


6l 


smiled a little, pitiful smile, which cut her 
mother to the heart, as her partner came up 
to claim her for the next dance. 

What poor, helpless mortals we are, 
tossed here and there on the billows of Fate. 
A woman has a dozen lovers sighing at her 
feet and yet her heart will pass them all by 
to fix itself upon one who loves her not, 
who in his turn may love hopelessly. And 
thus the world wags on, women love in 
anguish, often to shame, men love and ride 
away, or the best of them see the woman 
they love go to the arms of another. 

What a very good time Adam and Eve 
must have had in the Garden of Eden. 
There were no other women for Adam to 
flirt with and perhaps find more beautiful 
than Eve, and no other men to turn Eve's 
head, only that very naughty serpent which 
is said to have given her a hankering after 
the forbidden fruit, though, after all, I am 
afraid in the end curiosity would have made 
Eve indulge in it without any prompting. 
At any rate she must have found it very 


62 PASSION FLOWERS 


delicious for she immediately wanted Adam 
to share it with her. So she tempted Adam, 
as her daughters have been doing ever 
since, into partaking of that sweet forbidden 
fruit. Of course their pleasure did not last 
long but what delightful thing in this world 
does last long.? It would cease to be so de- 
lightful if it did. For though we fondly 
imagine that this or that enticing pleasure 
would never lose its delight, we make a 
great mistake. There is one demon who 
stalks the earth from whom none can es- 
cape, the demon of Satiety. Sooner or later 
he lays his corroding hand on our joys, our 
delights, and they shrivel up and rot beneath 
his touch. Adam and ^ve would probably 
have wearied of that sweet forbidden fruit 
had it not been snatched from them. How- 
ever, the taste for it has descended to their 
children, and the world stills goes on eating 
the forbidden fruit and will continue to do so 
until the end of time. 

Marguerite,'’ Bernard was saying, ''will 
you not waltz with me?” 


AND THE CROSS. 


63 


“I do not think I shall dance,” she re- 
plied, listlessly. I am only going to remain 
a little while as I am due at another house. 

I am very tired,” she added, with a short 
sigh. 

He saw there were violet shadows under 
her eyes and a look like pain on the white 
beauty of her face. 

Marguerite, what is it, are you not 
well?” he asked, anxiously. 

“I am quite well,” she repeated, a little 
impatiently, “ Bernard, why do you not go 
and dance? that music is very enticing.” 

^‘Will you not dance with me?” he 
pleaded. “Please do.” 

“What a boy you are sometimes,” she 
said, with a slight smile, “Very well, then,” 
rising, “I will take a round or two.” 

The next moment he held her in his arms 
and they were floating round the room to 
the soft, sensuous music. Bernardos heart 
leaped wildly against her bosom, half with 
ecstasy, half with pain. Ecstasy at holding 
in his arms that lovely form, feeling it close 


64 


PASSION FLOWERS 


against him, his lips almost touching the 
perfumed hair. Pain that his arms about 
her had no power to quicken the beating of 
her heart beneath that most fair bosom, 
even to bring the faintest flush to her cool, 
lovely cheek. It all, however, ended but too 
soon. Long before the music stopped she 
paused and drew herself away. 

**That will do,’’ she said, am tired.” 

Without speaking, he led her into one of 
the alcoves screened off from the ball-room 
by portieres of crimson silk. Every pulse 
in his body was throbbing, and, as she 
sank languidly down upon a small divan, he 
bent over her. 

** Marguerite ! ” he whispered hoarsely, 
and before she could move he stooped and 
pressed his lips to her bare gleaming 
shoulder. 

She neither started nor moved but her 
level brows contracted and she raised her 
eyes and looked full at him. 

” I really cannot understand why you will 
persist in forcing such distasteful scenes 
upon me,” she said, coldly. 


AND THE CROSS. 


65 


“I cannot help it, I cannot help it,” he 
whispered, hoarsely, ‘^for I love you, ah, 
God ! how I love you.” 

” Which is much to be deplored since I do 
not love you. Bernard, do be sensible. 
Stop thinking about me and look out for 
some pretty young girl who will make you 
a nice wife and so happy that you will soon 
wonder at your infatuation for me. Now, I 
think I can suggest one. Fern Howard. 
Really, I am quite sure you would not ex- 
perience much trouble in persuading her to 
make you happy.” 

‘‘You are more than cruel,” he whis- 
pered, with white lips. 

She arose with a weary shrug of her 
shoulders. 

‘‘Then you will not take good advice. 
But enough of this. Take me to my car- 
riage, I am going.” 

In silence he offered her his arm and 
passed out. In the hall they came upon 
Fern Howard with her latest partner. She 
started at the sight of Mrs. Loring, and her 


66 


PASSION FLOWERS 


pale face flushed. Then she said, with a 
little ghost of a smile. 

‘‘You are not going to leave us so soon, 
are you.?” 

“Unfortunately, I must,” replied Margue- 
rite, looking, with a smile into the girl’s face. 
She held out her hand. “Good night,” 
and then swept oh. 

As she was about to step into her carriage 
she turned and looked over her shoulder at 
Bernard, a faint, rather amused smile on her 
lips. 

“Oh, you very foolish man,” she said, 
in a low voice, “you will not gather the 
fruit which lies close to your hand, but you 
grasp and strain after that which hangs far too 
high for you ever to reach. But, again, permit 
me to offer you some advice. Acquire a 
taste for that fruit which is easy of access 
and you will find it just as sweet as that 
which you cannot reach. Far sweeter, per- 
haps.” 

“What do you mean?” he asked, gloom- 

ily. 


AND THE CEOSS. 


67 


you cannot read my allegory, simply 
and literally, this,” she replied. “F^rn 
Howard loves you. Are you blind that you 
cannot see it.^^ Marry her. She is young, 
and fair, and sweet, and she will adore you. 
Is not that sufficient for any man’s happi- 
ness. Think of it, Bernard, do.” 

She passed into her carriage, with a light 
laugh, the door closed upon her and she was 
whirled away. He stood bareheaded in the 
cold night air, gazing after the carriage. The 
soft strains of a waltz coming to his ear re- 
minded him of his engagement with Fern 
Howard. He turned and went slowly back 
into the house. 

A little while later he smiled at the very 
idea of Fern being in love with him as Mrs. 
Loring had declared. He had never seen 
the girl in more brilliant spirits. Her cheeks 
were flushed, her eyes bright, her girlish 
laugh rang out continually, almost too con- 
tinually Bernard thought. She treated him 
with smiling coolness and encouraged most 
pointedly a certain young and ardent ad- 


68 


PASSION FLOWERS 


mirer of hers, who was nearly off his head 
at her unexpected kindness. 

“She’s in love with young Roberts,” 
thought Bernard, indifferently, too much 
engrossed with his own misery to read the 
girl’s tortured, wretched heart aright. How 
stupid, how blind men often are when a 
woman’s heart is breaking. 

When Bernard drew Fern into the midst 
of the dancers she grew suddenly silent, and 
he saw that she had also grown pale and 
worn-looking. This he attributed to being 
separated from her young admirer and, 
without thinking, made some laughing 
remark on the subject. He was totally 
unprepared for and certainly taken back at 
the look of intense anger and scorn she 
flashed up at him from her gray eyes. 

“I really beg your pardon,” he said, 
quickly, “lam afraid I have offended against 
good taste. You must know that I would not 
say anything to offend you for the world.” 

She did not reply, only dropped her eyes 
and slightly inclined her head in recognition 


AND THE CROSS. 


69 


of his words. It was quite a relief to Ber- 
nard when the waltz was over and he re- 
signed her to the young man who had been 
the subject of discord and who had hovered 
expectantly around during the dance. But 
the latter’s delight was of short duration. 
Bernard had hardly bowed and taken him- 
self off when her whole manner changed, 
and she administered a severe snub to young 
Roberts which caused him considerable sur- 
prise and put a damper upon his ardor. 

‘'She is a flirt after all, like the rest of 
them, though I did think her above the usual 
run of women,” that young man thought re- 
sentfully and dolefully, as he went to get his 
coat and hat, and depart. 

Poor Fern, with what joyful anticipation 
she had looked forward to this ball, knowing 
he would be there, and what had it brought 
her.? What it brings to many of earth’s 
sweetest anticipations, bitter disappointment 
and misery instead of joy. When the last 
guest had gone. Fern slipped away to her 
room. Her mother, who had been miserably 


70 


PASSION FLOWERS 


watching her the whole night, soon followed 
her. To her consternation she found the 
girl lying on her face on the bed, her pretty 
dress crushed under her, and low, bitter sobs 
breaking from her. 

**Fern, my poor child, my darling,’^ she 
whispered, tenderly, bending over her, 
*MonT, Fern, you break my heart.” 

The girl raised herself up, disclosing her 
pretty face all marred and stained with 
tears. The mother sighed as she thought 
how fair, and sweet, and happy it had looked 
only a few hours before. Fern threw her 
slim, bare arms about Mrs. Howard’s neck. 

*‘Oh, mamma! mammal” she whispered, 
‘*did you know it?” 

“Yes, dear, every one but yourself has 
seen it long ago. He has been madly in- 
fatuated with her ever since her husband’s 
death. I wanted to warn you, I came in the 
other night to do so, but when I saw you 
looking so happy, darling, my heart failed 
me, I could not do it. I was a coward, but 
so is every mother when she must bring 


AND THE CROSS. 


71 


pain to her child. Fern, his desperate in- 
fatuation for Marguerite Loring was town 
talk before you made your debut. I am sure 
my child is too proud to continue caring for 
a man who loves another woman. You will 
forget him, dear.’^ 

The girl sighed wearily. Ah, it is so easy 
to talk of forgetting, so hard to forget. 

“What is the use of saying this to me 
now, mamma.!*” she said, drearily. “Do 
you suppose it possible for me to cease lov- 
ing him all at once though he does not love 
me and I am unwomanly in my love for 
him.? I wish, oh, so much, that I could, 
but, I — I cannot. Will — will he marry her?” 
looking with pain-dilated eyes into her 
mother’s face. 

“No, he will not,” replied Mrs. Howard, 
with, it must be confessed, rather vindictive 
satisfaction, “for the very good reason that 
she will not marry him. She cares nothing 
in the world for him.” 

“And he must be miserable,” said Fern, 
with the inconsistency of a tender, loving 
woman’s heart. 


72 PASSION FLOWERS AND THE CROSS. 


Mrs. Howard shrugged her shoulders. 
Her heart was very bitter towards the man 
who was making her child suffer, though 
poor Bernard was not in the least to blame, 
certainly having, in no way, been guilty of 
trying to win Fern’s affection. But Mrs. 
Howard was a woman, and what woman 
ever reasons where the thing she loves is 
concerned? If the object of her affection 
suffers through another it is always that 
other who is to blame. 



CHAPTER V 



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“ Father of Light 1 great God of Heaven ! 

Hear’st thou the accents of despair ? ” 

Marguerite Loring sank back into the car- 
riage with a sigh of relief. She craved 
solitude, for in that solitude she could aban- 
don herself to this new feeling which domi- 
nated her beyond all others. This woman 
to whom all passion had been hateful and 
repulsive, who had never in all her life 
before felt the faintest thrill of it, had sud- 
denly become its slave. The memory of a 
strong, dark face, a tall, magnificent form, 
in the black robes of a priest, a thrilling, 
magnetic voice had power to stir her to the 
very centre of her being. She longed with 
an intense anguished longing to feel his 
strong arms about her once again, his mad, 
wild kisses on her lips. Longed until she 
grew faint and sick with that longing. She 
thought of the many men who had loved 

75 


76 


PASSION FLOWERS 


her in vain, and how, hardly without one 
feeling of pity, she had watched them go 
from her presence with white, stricken faces 
from which the light of hope had fled. 

‘*And, he, my love, my love,^^ she mur- 
mured, stretching out her arms in the dark- 
ness,” he will not resist me, he must be 
mine. Surely his passions having lain so 
long in abeyance must have gathered re- 
newed force. He must yield. What are 
the barriers of his priesthood under the 
floodtide of our love? In my arms, with my 
kisses on his lips, he must forget that the 
world ever held for him anything less sweet 
than my love and his, and our complete and 
blissful surrender to that love. How madly 
he could love, how that voice of his (ah, 
there is not another voice like it in the 
whole wide world) could thrill with tender- 
ness, soften with passion. Darling! 
darling! Fate intended us for each other. 
It would not have been so cruel to ordain 
our loving like this in vain.” 

At that moment there was a sudden jar 


AND THE CROSS. 


77 


and the carriage came to a stop. Almost im- 
mediately the footman appeared at the door. 

“I am very sorry, ma’am,'’ he said, “but 
there is something wrong with one of the 
wheels. 1 am afraid it is impossible for you 
to go any further in the carriage.” 

Mrs. Loring uttered an impatient exclama- 
tion and stepped out on the cold pavement 
in her ivory satin slippers. As they stood 
thus, looking rather blankly at the carriage, 
which gracefully inclined to one side, a man 
came out of a house just in front of them. 
He came up at once, and lifting his hat, ad- 
dressed Marguerite. 

“1 am afraid, madam, you have had an 
-accident?” 

“Yes,” she replied, “my footman tells 
me there is something wrong with one of 
the wheels, and, from the appearance of the 
carriage, there is evidently something seri- 
ous the matter. 1 am rather at a loss wnat 
to do as it is impossible for me to walk any 
.distance in my slippers.” 

“This is my house, madam, and 1 should 


78 


PASSION FLOWERS 


be glad if you would come in and wait until 
your servant can procure a cab. I think 
that would be the simplest way out of the 
difficulty.” 

“You are right, and I shall be glad to 
avail myself of your kindness.” 

She gave some instructions to her foot- 
man and then followed the man into his 
house. He courteously opened the parlor 
door and then said. 

“Please make yourself at home, madam, 
and I must ask you to excuse me, I have a 
son who is very ill and I dare not leave the 
room. We are expecting the priest every 
minute.” 

“I beg that you will not give me another 
thought but return at once to your son. 1 
shall do very well indeed until my servant 
returns with the cab.” 

The man bowed and then withdrew. 
Marguerite removed her long, white plush 
wrap and stood leaning her hand on the 
mantel, and gazing down into the red heart 
of the fire. Its light gleamed on the marble 


AND THE CROSS. 


79 


fairness of her face, neck and arms, the 
dead-gold of her hair, and drew a thousand 
glittering scintillations from the diamonds 
which covered her. She looked strangely 
out of place in the small, plainly furnished 
parlor. In a very little while she heard the 
front door open and close and then a wo- 
man’s voice say : 

Please go into the parlor, Father, while 
I let them know you are here.” 

Marguerite turned as the. parlor door, in 
its turn, opened. She saw standing, in si- 
lent amazement, on the threshold, a tall, 
dark form, in priestly garb, and a low cry 
left her lips. He quickly closed the door 
and came a little forward, looking at her 
with shrinking eyes, into which the old ter- 
ror had sprung. 

‘'You!” she cried, rapturously, tenderly. 

“Are you flesh and blood ? ” he muttered, 
hoarsely, “or some vision conjured up by 
the prince of tempters for my undoing.?” 

She gave a soft, little laugh and moved 
forward until she was close to him. Then 


8o 


PASSION FLOWERS 


she laid her white, naked arm to the hand 
which hung clenched at his side. 

*‘Do I not feel like real flesh and blood 
she murmured. ‘‘Warm, panting flesh and 
blood, alone could love as I do, ” she went 
on, raising her eyes, heavy and languid 
with passion, to his gloomy, shrinking ones. 
“Ah, dearest, how cruel you were to me 
that morning when I — I even came to you. 
Be kind to me now Take me in your arms, 
these dear arms for which I have so. longed, 
and tell me that you love me, that you will 
not leave me again. Kiss me, and tell me 
you love me between your kisses.’^ 

She leaned heavily against him; her white 
satin robes sweeping about his feet, and the 
delicate perfume which hung about her 
rising to his nostrils like strong wine. 

With a whitening face he gazed down upon 
her ; upon all the white loveliness bared to 
view in her low, sleeveless gown. He could 
see the ivory bosom as it rose and fell quickly 
under the soft laces. No man had ever ex- 
perienced such allurements from her, because 


AND THE CROSS. 


8l 


she had never loved and all passion had been 
hateful to her. Beautiful as she was she 
had always been so cold, so impervious to 
all approach. Many men had madly loved 
her but she had been ice until now. Now, a 
mad fever of love and passion ran riot in her 
veins and, abandoning herself to it, she 
tempted as only a woman, voluptuously beau- 
tiful, loving with an intensity of reckless, 
uncontrolled passion, madly longing for that 
passion^s fulfilment, can tempt. 

*‘Be kind, be kind to me,” she whispered, 
and again a wild wave of passion swept away 
from him all control. He suddenly mur- 
• mured some inarticulate words and crushed 
her in his arms, wildly kissing her hair, her 
lips, her throat, her shoulders. The violence 
of his passion took away her breath and left 
her weak and trembling. She lay heavily 
and panting in his arms, but she smiled and 
sighed, and pressed his hand close against 
her heart. Then there came a step along 
the hall . He put her quickly from him . She 
sank weakly upon a couch, and a sigh of 


82 


PASSION FLOWERS 


soft impatience left her lips. Her lips were 
a vivid crimson from his strong, rough kisses 
which had also left red marks on the white- 
ness of her throat and shoulder. 

The door opened and the servant put in 
her head. 

“Will you please come up, Father,” she 
said, staring in amazement at Marguerite. 

He bowed. His face was quite colorless 
to the very lips, his eyes were bent upon the 
ground. He never raised them as he mutely 
inclined his head to the woman who had but 
a moment ago lain in his arms, and then 
passed from the room. 

When he came down from the sick cham- • 
ber, the front door was open. He went out. 
Marguerite Loring was just about entering a 
cab, her servant standing beside her. She 
paused and turned. 

“ Ah, Father,” she said, raising her sweet, 
languid voice,” will you not permit me take 
you home? It is directly on my way and 
would afford me much pleasure. It is rather 
cold to make a walk agreeable.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


83 


He came up to her, baring his head with 
the grace of a courtier. The light from a 
street-lamp fell upon her uncovered, gold- 
colored head, her lovely face and passion-soft 
eyes which looked the warmer pleading her 
lips could not speak. A mad desire came 
over him to follow her into the cab, to pour 
forth the strong passion which was surging 
in his heart, to tell her he would struggle 
against it no longer. With one great, su- 
preme effort, however, which turned him 
dizzy and almost faint, he conquered it. 

‘‘Thank you,^^ he replied, “but I enjoy 
walking and do not mind the cold in the least. 
Madam, good night.’’ 

He bowed, covered his head, and then, 
turning, strode away down the street. The 
cold air seemed for a moment to cool the hot 
blood coursing so wildly through his veins, and 
he drew a long sigh of relief. He felt an in- 
tense desire to walk on and on, the cold wind 
blowing in his face, the brisk exercise numb- 
ing the power of thought. It was with an 
effort that he turned his steps in the direction 


84 


PASSION FLOWERS 


of the Cardinal’s residence. As he entered 
the hall, one of the Cathedral priests came 
out of the library. 

“I am greatly indebted to you, Father,’* 
he said, ‘‘for taking my place. I have just 
returned, myself, from the sick call which 
took me away. How did you leave the boy.^ 

“I think he has taken a turn for the bet- 
ter,” was the reply. 

The utter weariness in the magnetic voice 
caused the other priest to look closely at him, 
at the colorless face, with the dark rings of 
pain under the powerful eyes. 

“I am afraid you are not well. Father,” he 
said, “or very much fatigued. Is there any- 
thing I can do for you } ” 

“Thank you, no,” was the reply.” I am 
only, as you say, somewhat fatigued. I wil^ 
say good night, now.” 

“Good night, and try to get some rest.. 
You need it, I am sure.” 

Rest! The word seemed to echo in his- 
ears as he went up stairs and into his room. 
Rest! A week ago it would not have sound- 


AND THE CROSS. 


85 


ed such a mockery, for it was his. He threw 
aside the heavy, black cloak which had en- 
veloped him and, folding his arms across his 
breast, began walking to and fro the length 
of the room. The Cathedral clock pealed 
out the hour of three, but he never heeded, 
though he was very tired and must also rise 
at four. With such a tumult raging in his 
soul, how could he find sleep? He felt that 
he should never find again the restful un- 
troubled slumber which had come to him 
when wornout with the labors of the day 
he would throw himself upon his couch. 
He knew what dreams would come now to 
torture and rack him, should sleep throw its 
dark mantle over him. Dreams of a beauti- 
ful woman who bent tenderly over him, 
whispered soft, loving words in his ear, 
pressed her perfumed lips to his. And when 
he tried to clasp this bewildering vision it was 
gone, there was only the empty darkness. 

It is a question whether priests should be 
subjected to the law of celibacy. Of course, it 
really elevates them, raises them above the 


86 


PASSION FLOWERS 


vulgar herd, throws over them a sort of 
sanctity, and enables them to give them- 
selves entirely to the service of God and 
the church. But, on the other hand (and 
let me here say that I do not for a moment 
advocate priests marrying, I simply wish to 
speak neutrally on the subject) a man is 
born with strong passions, they are a part, 
indeed, the strongest part of him. God 
made man with these passions for the pur- 
pose of peopling the world. In Adam they 
had no evil tendency, whether they were as 
strong in him as in those that came after, it 
is impossible to say, but it is reasonable to 
conclude that they were not. When Adam 
and Eve fell, human nature became then cor- 
rupt with a tendency towards evil. Traits 
and passions whch God gave man for good 
were perverted, turned to evil. That pas- 
sion which God had implanted in man for 
the world’s populating, and which, according 
to His law, there is but one legitimate way 
of gratifying, was turned into a thousand 
•channels of evil. Men became its slaves, for 


AND THE CROSS. 


87 


it seemed stronger than any other power 
they possessed. 

Thus the priest, under a law of celibacy, 
bound by a vow of chastity, to subdue and 
trample under foot his passion, must possess 
extraordinary powers of endurance and un- 
bounded self-control under all circumstances 
and all temptations. All this I say in de- 
fense of the Passionist priest. Father Faber. 
From his magnificent physique, it followed 
naturally that he was possessed of strong 
passions, but these passions had been held 
down until there came to him, as there comes 
to everybody, sooner or later, the great temp- 
tation of his life. Not that temptations do 
not beset the pathway of every child of her 
who first listened to its insidious voice, but 
there comes, perhaps, once into every life, a 
temptation which will sweep before it every- 
thing, in the whirlpool of which all will be 
engulfed. No man knows what passions lie 
dormant in him until temptation comes to 
call them into life. He is a fool who boasts 
that he would not do this or that thing that 


PASSION FLOWERS 


S8 


another man has done, for he does not know 
what he would do under like temptation. 
Probably Eve, when the serpent first began 
to whisper his temptation in her ear, was 
quite sure she could never yield to it. She 
had so much confidence in her strength of 
resistance, that she committed the mistake 
that her sons and daughters have been com- 
mitting ever since. She listened. And, as 
the serpent dilated upon the sweetness of 
that forbidden fruit, upon the joy she would 
find in partaking of it, she began to waver, 
and then she fell. 

As Father Faber paced back and forth his 
room, imagination painted in loveliest, most 
alluring hues the delights of yielding to the 
passion and the sin which tempted him. 
Her white loveliness, her perfect, voluptuous 
form, the passion and softness in her slum- 
brous eyes all arose before him, he could feel 
the weight of her perfumed body as she had 
lain heavily against him, the clasp of her 
soft, naked arms about his throat, the pres- 
sure of her fragrant lips to his own. And 


AND THE CROSS. 


89 


as these soft, maddening memories thronged 
upon him the struggle almost ceased, he 
nearly yielded. 

It was then that he suddenly paused in 
front of a mirror and stood transfixed, gazing 
at the reflection within. The wan, dark 
face, the heavy sombre robes, the crucifix 
at the waist, in a word the whole uniform 
of one who has cast from him the carnal 
things of life and, who in humility, self-de- 
nial, and asceticism, follows in the footsteps 
of ‘‘Him who went before.” And as he 
looked, all the allurement and the passion 
seemed to fall away from him. What had 
they to do with those black robes, that sym- 
bol upon his breast? A sudden peace and 
calm seemed to drive away the unrest, the 
strife, and the agony. A long sigh, such as 
often leaves the lips of a person suddenly 
relieved from intense, physical pain, broke 
from him. He turned away and sinking 
upon his knees, bowed his head upon his 
hands and, with faltering lips, murmured a 
few words of supplication to heaven. But 


90 


PASSION FLOWERS 


as he bowed his head, there rose to his nos- 
trils from the place on his breast where her 
head had Iain, a faint sweet odor, and, in a 
moment, the peace and calm were swept 
away. All the mad delight, the wild rap- 
ture of those few moments when she lay in 
his arms, and his lips pressed long .kisses on 
her lips, throat and shoulders, rushed over 
him, and the passion and strife began again. 

“Ah, God ! how will it end.?^’ he moaned, 
in uncontrollable anguish. “If I could but 
go, fly from this place, but I cannot, alas, it 
is impossible. I, a priest of God, love this 
woman madly, frantically, and what can it 
bring to me save ruin here and hereafter 

At that moment there came a knock at 
the door. He arose and opened it. The 
colored man-servant stood outside, and he 
looked rather surprised at seeing the priest 
fully clad. 

“Father,” he said, “I am very sorry to 
be obliged to disturb you again, but there is 
another call for you. The servant is wait- 
ing below.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


91 


Very well, I will come at once,^* replied 
Father Faber. He only paused long enough to 
get his long, black cloak and throw it about 
his shoulders, then followed the man down 
stairs. He found a liveried servant waiting 
in the hall and together they went out into 
the bleak night. The Cathedral clock was 
striking five. 

''We have only a short distance to go, 
Father,’^ said the man, "right around here 
on Franklin street, near Charles.” 

"Who is ill?” asked the priest. 

"It^s Miss May, sir, the only child of my 
master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. George 
Kingsley. She has had heart trouble for 
some time the doctors now say, though it^s 
the first that we knew of it. She was taken 
very suddenly, and — and nothing can save 
her they say, the doctors.” 

The man’s voice faltered a little towards 
the end of his sentence and he began a tre- 
mendous coughing to hide it. In a very few 
minutes they had reached their destination, 
a large, imposing looking house. The man 


92 


PASSION FLOWERS 


Opened the door .with a latch-key and the 
priest found himself in a richly furnished 
hall. Some more servants, men and women, 
were standing about in groups, talking in low, 
whispered tones. The whispering ceased, 
however, and they all drew back as a door 
opened on the right and a gentleman of 
about fifty came out and advanced to meet 
the priest. The white, strained look of ag- 
ony on his face was very familiar to the 
latter. 

‘‘Will you please follow me. Father,” he 
said, turning and walking slowly, with al- 
most faltering steps down the hall. “We 
have not dared to move my daughter since 
she was taken ill. She is still in her bou- 
doir. This awful heart attack suddenly 
seized her on her return from her first ball, 
her — her debut.” 

His voice faltered and broke. He walked 
quickly on and opened a door on the left. 
The room they entered was a small one, 
draped in pink silk, and furnished with costly, 
girlish daintiness. In one of the prettiest 


AND THE CROSS. 


93 


chairs lay a young girl, her head thrown 
heavily back. The masses of loosened, 
gold-colored hair which fell about her, made 
the priest shudder for a moment. She was 
dressed all in pure white, trimmed with lil- 
ies-of-the-valley, and her neck and slim girl- 
ish arms were bare. On the latter the veins 
stood out blue and distended from the con- 
vulsive pressure of the small hands on the 
arms of the chair. 

The girPs face was as white as her robes, 
there was a look of supreme agony upon it, 
and her breath came in great pants. All 
around her were scattered flowers, loose 
clusters of exquisite roses and other choice 
flowers, tied with ribbons. Three doctors 
were present, but they were idle, while at 
their feet knelt a lady in evening-dress, 
wringing her hands in mad agony, and call- 
ing wildly upon them to save her child. 

* ‘ Madam , ’ ^ one of them was saying gently, 
as he tried to raise her, ‘‘make an effort to 
calm yourself. Believe me, we are power- 
less. The only thing we could do would be 


94 


PASSION FLOWERS 


to ease your daughter’s pain until the end, 
but she wishes to retain possession of her 
senses.” 

“Yes, ’’murmured the girl, faintly. “What 
is this pain compared to the happiness of 
making my peace with heaven and looking 
to the last upon the faces of those I love.” 

The priest had by this time advanced 
into the room. The dying girl turned her 
pain-dilated eyes upon him and a faint smile 
touched her colorless lips. 

“Ah, Father,” she said, “you are here. 
1 heard you preach last night,” she went on, 
in her sweet, weak voice, “and I could never 
have forgotten it. When I knew I was dy- 
ing, 1 felt as though I would like to have you 
come to me. I have only been a Catholic a 
few months,” she added, with a wistful 
look at the gray, bowed head of her father 
and at the form of her mother crouching be- 
side her in an utter abandonment of agony. 
I wish to make my last confession.” 

The priest’s experienced eye saw that it 
must be done quickly, and he requested that 


AND THE CROSS. 


95 


he and the dying girl might be left alone. 
It was with much difficulty that they induced 
the poor mother to leave the room, but at 
length she was prevailed upon to do so and, 
to the accompaniment of her sobs and moans 
from the adjoining apartment, the girl made 
her last confession. It did not take many 
minutes, for the young life, so nearly ended, 
had been singularly innocent and pure. 
With temptations all around her, in an at- 
mosphere of self-indulgence and vanity, she 
had lived untainted. When he had pro- 
nounced over her the words of absolution. 
Father Faber hastily summoned the others. 

The girl was nearly gone. She could not 
speak, but, as her parents bent over her, 
she smiled, and, as she smiled, died. The 
priest lingered for a little while, after they 
had borne the mother unconscious from the 
room, looking down upon the dead girl, as 
she lay in her white robes with the smile on 
her fair, young face, from which all trace of 
suffering had vanished almost as the soul went 
out from the slender girlish form. The flow* 


96 PASSION FLOWERS AND THE CROSS. 


ers, which had marked her entrance into the 
world of fashion, still lay around her, yield- 
ing up a sweet, almost overpowering, per- 
fume. Some had been crushed under foot 
and were faded and dead, others were al. 
most as fresh and fragrant as when she had 
bent caressingly over them but a few hours 
before. The lilies lay on her breast, and 
among them the loosened masses of golden 
hair. The tears came into the priest^s dark 
eyes as he looked upon her. 

Untainted,’^ he whispered. Ah, how, 
beautiful is innocence.^’ 

He laid his hand, for a moment, on the 
soft, gold hair, notin benediction, but with a 
strange humility. Then with bowed head 
he passed out of the room. When he went 
into the street, the sun was rising. The sky 
was all flushed with rose-color and yellow, 
and the domes and spires of the city were 
lighted with a crimson glow. The priest, 
nearly staggering from fatigue, bared his 
head for a moment. 

“How beautiful is innocence,** he again 
repeated. 


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VI. 

“That love had arrows well I know.” 

About three o^cIock the following after- 
noon, Bernard ran up the steps of Mrs. Lor- 
ing^s house just as the door opened and Fern 
Howard came out holding little Bertie by the 
hand. She blushed at the unexpected ren- 
contre while the child uttered a shout of de- 
light, and sti<l holding on to Fern, he caught 
Bernardos coat with the other chubby hand. 
He looked very handsome and throughbred 
in his dainty clothes, and Bernard laid his 
hand caressingly on the beautiful curls, so 
like Marguerite^s hair in color, which fell 
from under his blue velvet cap upon his rich 
collar of lace. 

‘‘Oh, Mr. Gray,^^ he cried, joyously and 
breathlessly, “1 am going for a walk with 
my dear Miss Fern. 1 was so afraid mamma 
was not going to let me go or send Nurse 
along when she said, ‘my dear Miss How- 

99 


100 


PASSION FLOWERS 


ard, I can’t allow you really to burden your- 
self with that troublesome boy.’ ” 

Neither Bernard nor Fern could suppress a 
smile as he mimicked so truly in his baby 
voice his mother’s languid tones. At the 
same time Fern felt a thrill of tender pity 
forthe handsome, manly little fellow of whom 
any mother might be proud and fond. 

But we got off after all, did’nt we. Miss 
Fern?” he went on, with an affectionate 
look up into the girl’s face which looked a 
little pale and worn as the flush died out of it. 

*‘Yes, wegot off capitally,” she replied^ 
smiling down upon the small, eager face. 

‘Mt’s ever so much nicer going out with 
Miss Fern than with Nurse or mamma, not 
that mamma takes me often, only some- 
times. Nurse is often cross, and makes me 
walk straight along by her side, won’t let me 
run or stop to look in at the windows. When 
I go with mamma, I have to sit straight up 
in the carriage, if I say anything, she tells 
me to be silent, if I even move, she tells me 
to keep still that I make her nervous.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


lOI 


As the child was talking, Bernard was 
wondering bitterly how he could so madly 
love and wildly desire to make his wife a 
woman so cold, so heartless, as to have no 
affection for her own child. 

** But,’’ went on Bertie, “when Miss Fern 
takes me out, I have just a jolly time. We 
look in the nice shop windows, and she tells 
me just elegant stories. Oh, I love my 
dear Miss Fern,” breaking off suddenly and 
pressing his curly head affectionately against 
her skirts. She smiled, smoothed his curls, 
and her face was very sweet and tender. 
Looking at her. Marguerite’s words regarding 
her, recurred to Bernard, and he thought 
what a fair, sweet, tender, girlish bride she 
would make to some man who would love 
her. He wondered bitterly, why love had 
not come to him in some such sweet and 
happy guise. A love to bring him joy and 
peace,' to fulfil all his hopes, to crown his de- 
sires, instead of a mad, hopeless passion, 
which was only torture and agony. He 
started out of his gloomy reverie to. find 


102 


PASSION FLOWERS 


Fern’s eyes bent pityingly and sadly upon 
him. She colored deeply as she met his 
gaze and turned to the boy. 

*‘Come, Bertie, we must be going,*’ she 
said, *^Oh, by the way, Mr. Gray,” paus- 
ing again, while her face grew grave and 
sad, ‘Ms it not awfully sad about May Kings- 
ley?” 

“Miss Kingsley? Pardon me, I have 
heard nothing regarding her,” 

“She is dead. She died very suddenly 
last night.” 

“Dead, how terrible. She was to have 
made her debut at her aunt’s, Mrs. Royer’s 
reception and ball.” 

“ It was on her return from there, that she 
was taken with a terrible heart attack, and 
died in about an hour. They never even 
suspected that her heart was affected.” 

“Did she not become a Catholic about a 
month ago?” asked Bernard. 

“Yes, and her parents were so opposed 
to it. I think it must have been the first 
time in her life that they ever opposed any 


AND THE GROSS. 


103 


desire of her’s, they idolized her so. One 
of the Passionist priests staying at the Ca- 
thedral, was with her when she died, I un- 
derstand. Her mother and father they say, 
are nearly crazed with grief. 

*Mt is most sad,” said Bernard. am 
exceedingly schocked. Poor child, just be- 
ginning her life, and with everything on 
earth for which to live.” 

Fern had turned away with tears in her 
eyes, Bertie trotting beside her. 

‘‘Mrs. Loring was in the drawing-room,” 
the man informed Bernard, and there he 
found her dressed to go out. 

“How grave you look,” she said, indiffer- 
ently, as she gave him her hand, on which 
she was drawing one glove. 

“Yes,” he replied, “I feel somewhat 
shocked. Miss Howard, whom I met outside, 
was just telling me of May Kingsley's death. 
So awfully sudden, I was terribly shocked.” 

She gave a little shiver of distaste. 

“Yes, it was awfully sudden I was on 
my way to her aunt's reception, when my 


104 


PASSION FLOWERS 


carriage broke down and I returned home. 
I am glad something prevented my getting 
there, I would not care to think of her as I 
should have seen her there, so full of life 
and happiness.’^ 

‘‘They say one of those Passionist priests 
from the Cathedral, was with her when she 
died.^^ 

She turned 3harply and abruptly, a rather 
unusual thing on her part, as all her move- 
ments were languid and graceful. 

“One of the Passionist priests, which 
one?” she asked, quickly. 

“Really, I cannot tell you. Marguerite,” 
answered Bernard, “I do not know anything 
at all about priests. Yes, I have heard a 
great deal of talk about the preaching of one 
of these Passionists, Father Faber, I think is 
his name, but I do not know whether it was 
he or not who was with Miss Kingsley.” 

He drew nearer to her as she stood draw- 
ing on her long gloves, a thoughtful, almost 
frowning look on her fair face. No matter 
how bitter his thoughts against her may 


AND THE CROSS. 


105 


have been, even though he may have felt 
that he hated her for the agony he suffered 
through her, yet when he was again with 
her, he only knew that he madly loved her, 
that her presence was to him an intoxica- 
ting delight and, at the same time, a thrill- 
ing agony. 

He caught her hands now, and, pulling 
from them the gloves she had half drawn on, 
threw them aside, and, bending his head, 
pressed his lips passionately to the white, 
dainty fingers, and the rose-tinted palms. 
She made no attempt to withdraw her hands, 
she only looked at him, elevating her eye- 
brows and slightly shrugging her shoulders 
with cool contempt. 

‘‘Oh, Marguerite, dearest,*^ he began, 
but then she gave him a cold, straight look 
right in the eyes, saying, as she slowly drew 
her hands from his. 

“My dear Bernard, will you kindly spare 
me.? I am always very much averse to 
the tiresome scenes to which you are con- 
stantly subjecting me, to-day, I feel more 
than usually so, if that be possible."' 


io6 


PASSION FLOWERS 


There was an utter distaste and coldness 
in her tone which, hopeless, though he knew 
his mad love to be, struck like a blow on his 
heart. He stood still and rigid watching 
her, with a dumb agony in his eyes, as she 
took up her gloves and began drawing them 
on again. Her eyes were cast down, there was 
something of scorn mingled with the coldness 
on her fair face. He looked at the wedding 
ring among the flashing jewels on her fin- 
ger, and thought of the man who had been 
her husband, whom she had loathed with 
deepest loathing, even as she yielded up to 
him her white beauty. Bernard seemed 
suddenly to understand the savage instinct 
which the dying man had confessed to him, 
when, maddened by her coldness and her 
aversion, he outraged and humiliated her. 
He felt, himself, as he stood looking at her 
so alluringly beautiful, so cold, so indifferent 
to the torture consuming him, that he would 
almost like to still the life in her fair body, 
and to know that she was powerless to tor- 
ture him more. 


AND THE CROSS. 


107 


But these mad thoughts.passed, and, when 
having finished putting on her gloves, she 
asked him if he cared to walk down the 
street with her, he assented, though some- 
what moodily. She took no notice at first, 
however, but talked to him in her languid 
tones as they walked along, while he an- 
swered her in monosyllables. 

‘‘My dear Bernard,^* she said, at length, 
“how very dull and uninteresting you are 
this afternoon. I have been positively ex- 
hausting myself talking to you and hardly a 
word in reply. 

“I beg your pardon, he replied, rousing 
himself. “lam afraid I am very stupid. 
Then he added, brilliantly : “ I wonder where 
Miss Howard and Bertie have gone?’^ 

“I really have no idea,” she said indiffer- 
ently, “why did you not go with them? It 
would have pleased them — both. By the 
way, I think she is using Bertie as an outlet 
for her affection,” and she laughed. 
t. The color rose in Bernard’s fair face. 

“All women are not cold and heartless 


io8 


PASSION FLOWERS 


like yourself, ” he said, quickly, ** and I thank 
God for it.’^ 

She looked at him, for a moment, with a 
rather strange expression in her beautiful 
eyes. 

Every woman is heartless, cold, and 
cruel in the eyes of the man to whose ap- 
proaches she is unresponsive, my dear Ber- 
nard,’^ she said, with a faint, mocking smile. 

That she is incapable of feeling at all, is 
the only excuse he can find for her indiffer- 
ence to himself. What a ridiculous idea, 
what inconceivable conceit. A woman may 
be as cold as ice to one man, and all ardor 
and passion to another. It is this very love 
and passion in her heart for one which often 
makes her a thing of ice to all others. Cruel ? 
because all others, who come with words of 
love upon their lips, and the light of passion 
in their eyes, are hateful, abhorrent to her. 
A woman who knows how to love, would 
rather die, than submit to a caressing touch, 
even from any hand save that under which 
she thrills and glows. 


AND THE CROSS. 


109 


He almost stopped in his amazement and 
stared at her. Never before had he heard her 
speak of love save mockingly, or with dis- 
taste. She looked exquisitely lovely also, 
as she finished speaking. A delicate, pink 
flush had crept into the marble fairness of 
her cheeks, her eyes were glowing, radiant, 
soft with some strong inward emotion which 
her own words seemed to have conjured up ; 
she breathed quickly. Slowly there dawned 
upon him the fact that he had made a great 
mistake, that, after all, he had failed to read 
this woman aright. 

“My God! he cried, “you could love, 
and, how you could love.^’ 

The next moment a cold chill seemed to 
strike to his heart. He had never seen her 
look or speak so before, what did it mean. 
He turned sick and dizzy, for a moment, 
with the agony of a sudden suspicion. For- 
getful of time or place, he laid his hand al- 
most roughly on her arm. 

“Marguerite,’^ he whispered hoarsely, 
“what do you mean } Why do you look and 


no 


PASSION FLOWERS 


speak so? I never saw you like this before, 
nor heard such words from your lips. 

She shook his hand from her arm angrily 
and haughtily. 

** Be kind enough to remember where you 
are, Bernard,’’ she said, coldly. 

The next moment she looked up into his 
face and laughed. 

“Really, my little dissertation seems to 
have had a strange effect on you, Bernard, 
why?” 

“Because,” he muttered, “the very 
thought of your loving or belonging to an- 
other maddens me.” 

“What, again, my dear Bernard,” she 
said, coolly, “did I not ask you to spare me 
these scenes?” 

He made no reply, and they went on in 
silence. They had reached Franklin street, 
and could see the Kingsley house with its 
closed blinds and long, white streamers of 
crepe and ribbon. Bernard looked there 
gravely, thinking pityingly of the dead girl 
lying within, who, perhaps, at this very hour 


AND THE CROSS. 


Ill 


yesterday, was eagerly and joyously antici- 
pating her entrance into the world of gayety 
and fashion. 

‘‘Had we not better go in?'' he asked. 

Marguerite shuddered. 

“No, no, I really could not," she hastily 
replied, “I shall be obliged to be present at 
the funeral, I suppose, but not now. I — I 
have such a horror of everything connected 
with death — " 

She stopped, abruptly. They had paused 
at the corner of Franklin and Charles streets, 
and, just then, the door of the Kingsley 
house opened, and the dark robed figure of 
a priest came out. For a brief moment he 
halted at the sight of the two standing be- 
low, then came slowly down the steps, his 
eyes bent upon the ground, though he bowed 
and bared his head, with courteous grace, 
as he passed Marguerite. 

“Why, do you know him. Marguerite?" 
asked Bernard, with an amused smile. “I 
didn't suppose priests were much in your 
line." 


II2 


PASSION FLOWERS 


She was gazing after the tall, black-robed 
form walking so rapidly away from them. 

“Yes, I know him’’ she replied, a little 
mechanically. “He is the Passionist priest 
of whom you were speaking a short while 
ago. Father Faber.’’ 

“Indeed, you don’t say so.?’’ cried Ber- 
nard, with interest and eagerness, “I have 
heard so much about his eloquence. I really 
intend going to hear him. There is some- 
thing going on at the Cathedral, a Mission, I 
think it is called, and those priests are here 
for it. By Jove!’’ looking admiringly after 
the priest, who was just turning in at the 
gate of the Cardinal’s house, “what a 
splendid physique he has, and what a pity 
to cover himself up with that gown, or what- 
ever they call it.” 

In the meantime, the priest’s face, as he 
hurried along, was white to the lips, and his 
eyes sombre with some strong emotion. 
Only that morning, on the spot where Mar- 
guerite Loring now stood, in the pink flush 
of the dawn, he had bared his bead, and 


AND THE CROSS. 


II3 


raising his face to the rose-tinted heavens 
with, what he had fondly imagined a new 
peace in his heart had cried, aloud : 

‘‘How beautiful is innocence.’’ 

And now passion and pain were again rag- 
ing in his heart, brought there by a black, 
mad jealousy which, hydra-like, had sud- 
denly reared its head at the sight of a man 
by her side. A man who looked down upon 
her with the passionate eyes of a lover. He 
was bound by no priestly vows, but free to 
win, to possess that white beauty, against 
the allurement of which the priest must 
struggle and fight, till heart, and soul, and 
body were weary of the strife. He had im- 
agined that he had suffered all that men 
could suffer, but this mad jealousy, this wild 
protest against another’s ever possessing 
what he dared not take, was worse than any 
torture which had yet been his. 



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VII. 


“Ah ! Love was never yet without 
The pang, the agony, the doubt.” 

‘‘Oh, Mr. Gray, to-morrow is my birth- 
day,’^ cried Bertie, running down the stairs 
to meet Bernard, that same evening, a little 
while before dinner. 

“Why, you don’t say so, little chap.?” 
answered Bernard, lifting the child on to his 
shoulder and carrying him into the drawing- 
rooms which were still silent and empty. 
He had arrived rather early. He sat down 
and put Bertie on his knee. 

“So to-morrow is your birthday, Bertie, 
and how old will you be.?” 

“Just six,” replied Bertie, in a most im- 
portant tone. “ And do you know, dear Mr. 
Gray, I shouldn’t have known it was my 
birthday at all, if I hadn’t heard Nurse 
sayin’ to mamma; ’shure^ ma’am, and have 
ye forgotten that to-morrow’s the darlint 
117 


Ii8 


PASSION FLOWERS 


bye’s birthday? Just six to be shure, and 
its well myself remimbers the very day he 
was born and how ill ye was to be shure — 
‘but then mamma, she just spoke very cross 
to Nurse, told her to be silent, and then 
walked out of the room. I think she must 
have been very cross, and Nurse, she was 
mad too, for, after mamma had gone out she 
gave a kind of sniff, like she always does 
when she’s mad, and said, kinder-like to 
herself, she often talks all to herself; ‘yis, 
and I remimbers too, me lady, when they 
brought the poor innocent little babby to ye 
(and a finer babby than that one was ’twould 
be hard to find), ye jist turned yer head 
away, and not a look would ye give it, only 
a sayin’ ‘take it a way, take it away,’ as 
though ye jist hated the very sight of it, as 
I belaves ye did, meself — ’ ” 

“There, Bertie, that will do,’’ interrupted 
Bernard, “I would prefer not hearing any 
more of Nurse’s soliloquies. Let’s get back 
to the birthday business. What do you 
want me to give you in honor of that impor- 
tant occasion^’’ 


AND THE CROSS. 


1 19 


Bertie reflected very deeply, for a few mo- 
ments, his straight brows drawn together. 

think,^^ he said, at length, very sol- 
emnly, ‘‘that I should like to have a watch. 
1 mean a real righty watch that I can wind 
up, and will really go, not one of these toy 
things like a boy I know has. And a chain 
with it, of course.’’ 

“Very well,” replied Bernard, laughingly, 
“a watch it shall be. You and I will go to- 
morrow morning and choose it. And, by 
the way, how would you like to give a 
luncheon in my apartments at Rennert’s 
afterwards ?” 

“Very much, indeed,” replied Bertie, 
with dignified complacency. “Do you 
mean I shall give it myself, Mr. Gray?” 

“Certainly. Now, whom do you wish 
to invite? You must issue all your invita- 
tions this evening.” 

Bertie thought very earnestly for a few 
moments. 

“Why, my dear Miss Fern, of course,’' 
he suddenly exclaimed, his small face light- 


120 


PASSION FLOWERS 


ing with affection, *'and — and mamma?’" 
looking up interrogatively into Bernard’s 
face. Bernard nodded affirmatively. 

‘*Oh, Mr. Gray,” with great vehemence 
and disgust, won’t have to ask nurse, 
will I? Please say I won’t have to ask 
nurse.” 

“No,” said Bernard, bursting out laugh- 
ing. ‘ ‘ I think we can dispense with nurse’s 
company on this occasion.” 

Bertie heaved a long sigh of relief, then 
his face fell. 

“But — but I am afraid mamma will say 
nurse must go; that I will be a trouble if 
she don’t. But, indeed, I won’t be a trou- 
ble, dear Mr. Gray,” he said earnestly. 

“You could not be a trouble to me, little 
chap,” answered Bernard, affectionately; 
“so don’t worry; I’ll fix it with mamma 
about nurse. Now, whom shall you invite 
besides mamma and Miss Fern?” 

“Well,” murmured Bertie, rather sheep- 
ishly. “I should like to invite Pinkie Gil- 
more.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


I2I 


“And who is Pinkie Gilmore?*' inquired 
Bernard. 

“Pinkie is Miss Fern's niece," replied 
Bertie; “she's five years old. Pinkie and 
me have met a great deal in society this 
winter, and danced a lot together, too. But 
I think I ought not to have any secrets from 
you, Mr. Gray, so I’ll tell you all about it; 
but you mustn't speak of it please, for no- 
body knows anything about it yet. Pinkie 
and me are engaged to be married." 

“Indeed!" responded Bernard, very 
gravely, “you surprise me." 

“Yes, it happened at the Juvenile Ger- 
man about a month ago. I don’t know 
whether I have told you yet or not, Mr. 
Gray, but Pinkie's very pretty, and lots of 
the other fellows are gone on her. There's 
Willie Carter — he and me used to be great 
chums 'til he tried to cut me out with Pinkie. 
We don’t speak now. Once we got to 
fightin' about Pinkie. 'Twas at Mabel 
Wilcox's tea; we were in the hall, and, oh, 
I just tell you nurse was terribly angry. 


122 


PASSION FLOWERS 


‘Shure, and yer not little gintlemin at all; 
but worse thin the newsbyes and boot- 
blacks on the strates/ she said. But 1 was 
tellin^ you, Mr. Gray, how Pinkie and me 
got engaged. We had been waltzin’ to- 
gether, and that Willie Carter he was just 
followin’ us all around tryin’ to get Pinkie 
away from me. ‘Pinkie,’ I said, ‘you like 
me better than you do Willie Carter, don’t 
you?’ ‘Of course I do,’ said Pinkie. 
‘You’re a great deal prettier than him, and 
your mother's richer than his father. 
’Sides, you’ll have a lot of money of your 
own when you’re growed up. I heard my 
mamma say so.’ Well, I just asked her 
then to marry me when I was a man, and 
she said she would, but that we must keep 
our engagement a secret, and. not let a soul 
know about it. But 1 know it’s quite safe 
with you, Mr. Gray.” 

“Quite safe, I assure you,” responded 
Bernard, still preserving his gravity, though 
not without some difficulty. “But may I 
venture to inquire why Miss Pinkie desires 


AND THE CROSS. 


123 


this secrecy? I should think it a very de- 
sirable match on both sides.” 

‘‘Well, I don’t know ’zactly,” said Bertie, 
frowning and looking thoughtful, “but some- 
times I am afraid that Pinkie’s a flirt, and 
she don’t want the other fellows to know, 
’cause she thinks they mightn’t pay her so 
much attention.” 

“ Bertie,” cried Bernard admiringly, while 
he patted the small shoulder, “I congratu- 
late you; for a young man of your years 
you have gotten the fair sex down pretty 
fine. I am very anxious indeed to make 
Miss Pinkie’s acquaintance.” 

“I’ll ask Miss Fern to come and bring 
her,” said Bertie, “and I am sure she’ll do 
it. She’ll be here to dinner this evening; 
she told me so, and promised to run up to 
the nursery to see me. I’ll tell her all 
about it then.” 

He paused suddenly. There was a soft 
frou-frou of silken skirts and a waft of deli- 
cate perfume. Both man and child knew 
who had entered before turning their heads. 


124 


PASSION FLOWERS 


*‘H^re is mamma/^ whispered Bertie in a 
subdued voice. /‘I guess I had better go; 
mamma doesn^t like me in the drawing- 
room.’^ 

^‘No; wait,” said Bernard, “you must 
invite your mamma to come to your lunch- 
eon to-morrow. Go, and ask her nicely.” 

He arose and turned, placing the child on 
the floor. 

‘‘Ah, Bernard,” said Marguerite, “you 
are early.” 

“Yes,” replied Bernard, “and Bertie has 
been entertaining me.” ^ 

He watched her with fascinated eyes, as 
she moved slowly towards him and sank 
down into a low chair. She was dressed in 
some sort of soft, clinging, green stuff, with 
emeralds glittering about her. With her 
yellow hair and white skin she reminded 
Bernard of a mermaid or a tempting, beau- 
tiful siren. The child stood beside him, 
silent and with drooping head — altogether 
unhide the manly little prattler of a few 
mingt^s before. Bernard touched hjm op 


AND THE CROSS. 


125 


the shoulder meaningly, and’ he moved for- 
ward reluctantly, pausing in front of his 
mother and raising his eyes timidly to her 
face. 

Mamma, he said, “to-morrow Mr. 
Gray is going to buy me a watch, because 
it is my birthday. Then he is going to let 
me have a luncheon in his rooms at Ren- 
nert’s, and — and would you please to come 
to it?” 

Bernard thought what a pretty picture 
they made — the beautiful woman and the 
handsome child gazing up in her face, and 
yet with a shyness and constraint he never 
evinced save in her presence. It was a 
sweet, attractive little face about which the 
golden curls hung, and yet how very, very 
like the face of the man Marguerite Loring 
had so loathed and v/hose blood ran, equally 
with her own, in the boy’s veins. The 
child was, as she had said, the living mem- 
ory of a time of an unutterable agony and 
an immeasurable disgust. Bernai;d sighed 
hopelessly as he saw how cold >vere her 


126 


PASSION FLOWERS 


beautiful eyes as she raised them from the 
child and turned them upon himself. 

‘‘What does he mean?” she asked, with 
an elevation of her straight brows. 

“Just what he says,” replied Bernard, 
rather curtly. “He and I have just ar- 
ranged it all. You will come? Of course 
it falls through if you refuse.” 

“I really do not know whether I will or 
not, ” she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. 
“I am not especially partial to children's 
parties.” 

Little Bertie looked involuntarily and ap- 
pealingly towards Bernard. His lips quiv- 
ered, but he bravely suppressed the tears 
which rose to his eyes. The sight of the 
small, sad, drooping figure, the little quiv- 
ering lips, mute, however, when many an- 
other child would have loudly given vent tO' 
his disappointment and rebelled against it, 
made Bernard’s heart ache. 

“You will not disappoint him, 1 hope,” 
he said, almost appealingly, to Marguerite. 

She broke into a light mocking laugh. 


AND THE CROSS. 


127 


‘'What a father you will one day make, 
my dear Bernard!” she said. “You were 
evidently cut out for a domestic man, and 1 
would advise you to enter at once upon 
your vocation. Of course, I would not dare 
to spoil this little arrangement of yours.” 

She turned her eyes then coldly upon the 
child, whose face had cleared and brightened 
at her words. 

“You can go to your nurse now, Bertie,” 
she said. 

Bernard bent down and kissed the child. 

“ It’s all right, little chap,” he said cheer- 
fully; “you arrange all the rest with your 
Miss Fern. I’ll call for you to-morrow 
morning about ten — so be ready.” 

He went with Bertie to the door, patted 
him affectionately on the head as the child 
looked up at him, his dark eyes full of affec- 
tion and gratitude. 

“Good night, dear Mr. Gray,” he whis- 
pered. 

“Good night, . little chap,” replied Ber- 
nard, and then the boy ran off. ' 


128 


PASSION FLOWERS 


Bernard came slowly back to Marguerite’s 
side, and as he did so he was struck with 
something in her face he had never seen 
there before. She had apparently forgotten 
his presence and was staring straight before 
her, her jewelled hands locked together in 
her lap. He was accustomed to seeing that 
beautiful face very weary and cold and 
mocking, but he had never seen on it before 
such pain and unrest as now clouded the 
starry eyes and impressed themselves bn 
the perfect lips. 

“Marguerite!” he cried involuntarily. 

She started, and looked up at him 
haughtily. 

“Well?” she said. 

“I beg your pardon,” he murmured, 
“but you looked to me just then as though 
you were suffering.” 

“Suffering?” She gave a light, cOol 
laugh, but at the same time she lifted her 
bare arms with a gesture full of a vague 
pathos and infinite yearning. “You have 
told me,^ Bernard,” she went on, still smil- 


AND THE CROSS. 


129 


ing, '‘that it is hell to long, to desire, to 
love in vain. At any rate, that is a suffer- 
ing I can never know, as you have also told 
me, my good Bernard, that I am a woman 
devoid of all feeling, without passion — a 
woman of ice, who will never know what 
love means. 

“I know that I have told you that,’^ he 
replied, moodily, “very, very often, and 
when I told you so I believed it; but I be- 
lieve it no longer. 

“Why?” she almostwhispered, a startled 
looked coming into her eyes and quenching 
in them the mocking light. 

“ Because you yourself told me differently 
this afternoon.” 

“I?” she repeated, incredulously. 

“Yes, you. Do you not remember what 
you said about a man’s conceit in accusing 
a woman of coldness because she did not 
respond to him?” 

“ I was speaking generally, of course,” 
she answered, the startled look again giving 
way to one of relief. 


130 


PASSION FLOWERS 


‘^Were you?” he muttered, his lips whiten- 
ing a little under his heavy, fair moustache. 
“Your face looked as though you were 
speaking from your own heart. I had never 
seen you look as you looked then. Marguer- 
ite, I realized for the first time that, un- 
consciously, I had been the conceited fool 
of which you spoke, and that, though ice to 
me, you could love as ardently as the most 
passionate of your sex. Oh, my God! if 
you should! if you should!” 

He buried his face in his hands, apd a 
strong shudder went through him. She 
rose up, a strange, soft radiance on her face 
shining in the depths of her beautiful eyes. 

“Why should I not?” she murmured. 
'‘You have told me that it is heaven to love 
when one’s love finds response. I have had 
my hell; why should I not find my heaven?” 

He dropped his hands from his face and 
looked at her. He was perfectly white now, 
and his eyes had a hunted look of agony. 

“Are you doing this to torture me?” he 
asked hoarsely. “Or — or are you in 


AND THE CROSS. 


I3I 


earnest? But, no,” drawing a long breath 
of relief, “of course you are but torturing 
me. I should have known but too soon 
but too soon.” 

“Would you?” she' murmured, looking 
at him with a strange expression in her 
eyes. “ But,” laughing lightly, “of course 
you would. If I loved, as you say I can, 
Bernard, all the world might know it, and 
all the world might go for it. Bah! the 
world is a hollow sham. I have drunk 
deeply of its bitterness in striving after its 
so-called delights; and when I had them 
they brought me only weariness, emptiness, 
ennui. There is one I have not yet tried, 
Bernard — this bliss called love. You and 
many others have offered it to me; but, you 
see — unfortunately for me, and you would 
say for yourselves-^love would not come at 
your bidding. Some day, perhaps, Ber- 
nard, your revenge may come, for I may 
Jove, and love — in vain.” 

He laughed a harsh, miserable laugh, and 
Jooked at her with haggard eyes as she 


132 


PASSION FLOWERS 


Stood before him in all her white, alluring 
beauty. 

“There is not much danger of that,” he 
said, moodily, “a Saint Anthony could not 
resist you.” 

She started a little and gazed at him with 
a sudden eagerness. 

“Why?” she half breathed, and again he 
broke into a bitter laugh. 

“Tell you that old story which you know 
so well and are so weary of?” he said. 
“That old, old story of a beauty which 
draws men’s hearts and souls from their 
bodies to be torn by impotent longing, 
crushed by hopeless torture. Resist you? 
no — no man with the passions, the feelings^ 
the heart of a man.” 

She drew a long, deep breath, and her 
eyes grew dreamy. He was a man, with a 
man’s passionate heart beating under the 
black robe of the priest. He had yielded for 
the moment, for his kisses still burned on 
her lips; she had felt the leaping of his 
heart as she lay crushed against it; but he 


AND THE CROSS. 


133 


had conquered still, and fled from her. But 
there would come a time when he would 
resist no more; when he would be hers; 
when the mad delirium of love, which had 
seized her at the first sound of his voice, 
would cease its torture and find its delight 
in the blissful abandonment to all love’s 
sweet and imperious demands. 

Some of her guests arrived just then, 
and, rousing herself, she moved forward to 
meet them. 

Bernard found himself a little later on his* 
way to the dining-room, with Fern Howard ^ 
upon his arm. Her small hand lay very 
lightly there. It struck him, as he looked 
down upon her, that the girlish face was 
paler and had a wan look. 

am afraid you are feeling your win- 
ter’s dissipation,” he said gently, when 
they were seated at table; ‘^you look tired 
and pale.” 

”No,” she replied, flushing a little, do 
not think I am any the worse for my dissi- 
pation. I am very strong and can bear a 


134 


PASSION FLOWERS 


^reat deal of fatigue. I shall be glad to rest, 
however; though I once thought I could 
never get enough gaiety.’^ 

She sighed, almost unconsciously. 

*‘You will receive an invitation to-night, 
which I hope you will accept,” said Ber- 
nard, with a smile; and then he told her of 
Bertie's plans for the following day. She 
smiled as she listened. 

“ I will come, of course, and bring Pinkie,” 
she said. “She and Bertie are great 
friends.” 

“They are more than friends, it seems,” 
said Bernard, laughing. “Bertie, in strict 
confidence, informed me that they were en- 
gaged. This is an age of precocity in chil- 
dren, is it not?” 

“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied, very 
gravely; “and it grieves me to see it. There 
is nothing sweeter than .an innocent little 
child; but there are few real children now- 
adays — I mean among society people. They 
are small men and women, versed in all the 
ways of the fashionable world — their small 


AND THE CROSS. 


135 


minds forced, like hot-house plants, to an 
unnatural ripeness. Do you know I think 
it is a perversion of the very laws of nature 
to crush out childhood 

quite agree with you,” replied Ber- 
nard. There are so few sweet and inno- 
cent things left in this corrupt age that it 
seems a pity it should also engulf ‘child- 
hood.” 

‘‘There is my little niece. Pinkie,” went 
on Fern, “such a baby — only five years 
old, but, really, sometimes I think it is I 
who am the child and she the woman. 
There is one thing certain,” flushing and 
smiling, “Pinkie has certainly had many 
more experiences than myself. She makes 
me her confidante regarding her numerous 
flirtations and so on, and, though it is 
really wonderful to hear such things from 
such baby lips, it makes me feel some- 
times sad and disgusted. Last Christ- 
mas I bought her a beautiful doll and 
dressed it myself very prettily, and, would 
you believe it? she was quite insulted. I 


PASSION FLOWERS 


136 


am sure you ought to know that I don’t 
play with dolls/ she said, with a disdainful 
look at my beautiful doll. ‘las much as 
told you what I wanted you to give me for 
a Christmas gift, Auntie Fern — a string of 
small pearls to wear around my neck. They 
would look just lovely with my new party 
dresses, which are all cut low. But a doll; 
I really wouldn’t know what to do with a 
doll.’ Do you know I was foolish enough 
to feel hurt and angry, while my sister-in- 
law was intensely amused. ‘How could 
you make such a mistake. Fern.?’ she said, 
laughing. But I took back the doll and 
bought the string of pearls, which Pinkie 
wore, with much pride and complacency, to 
her next German.” 

Bernard laughed. 

‘'Do you know,” he said, more gravely, 
after a few moments, “that this precocity 
in children is going to render the future 
society even more corrupt? By the time a 
young girl is introduced into society she is 
really blase. Nothing is new to her — she 


AND THE CROSS. 


137 


has danced, dissipated, flirted, ever since 
she was little more than a baby. She soon, 
in this age when we live on sensation and 
excitement, begins to ■ crave new excite- 
ments and sensations. It is this craving 
which goes a long way towards corrupting 
society.” 

He glanced across the table at a very 
pretty woman, extremely decollete, who 
was drinking a great deal of champagne, 
and carrying on a most pronounced flirta- 
tion with a good-looking man on her right. 

‘‘That exemplifies what I mean,” he 
went on. “There is a fair sample of 
the modern society woman. She could 
not live without sensation. The wine she 
is drinking is the sauce piquant to her sen- 
timentalism. See her half an hour hence, 
when the effect of the wine is gone and the 
man absent, she is bored, listless, oppressed 
with ennui. She craves sensation and ex- 
citement as the opium-eater craves the drug; 
without it life is but weariness, emptiness. 
And sensation and excitement of that nature 
are rarely innocent.” 


138 PASSION FLOWERS AND THE CROSS. 


He looked from the flushed face opposite, 
with its languorous, passionate eyes and red 
parted lips, to the fair, pure girlish one at his 
side. 

‘M beg your pardon,” he said, quickly,- 
for treating you to such a dissertation. You 
would never be like that I think if you lived 
among them a thousand years.” 

She flushed and her eyes sank. He 
sighed and looked away to where Marguerite 
sat, listening, with a faint, languid smile on 
her lips, to a tall, distinguished-looking man, 
on her right, who talked with his iron-gray 
head bent low towards her, and a glow in 
his deep-set eyes. The flush died out of 
the girl’s face as she followed the direction 
of Bernard’s eyes. She might have his 
respect and, perhaps, his admiration, but 
another woman possessed his love. 

A little later, in the drawing-room. Fern 
informed Bernard that she had seen Bertie 
and also promised to come to his luncheon 
and bring Pinkie. 


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VIII. 

“ Art here my natal day.” 

‘‘Well, my little chap, how do you like 
it.? ” asked Bernard, about noon, the follow- 
ing morning, as he and the child entered his 
rooms at Rennert’s. He had had them 
prettily decorated in yellow for the occasion, 
with yellow-shaded lamps and Marechal 
Niel roses heaped about in bowls and vases, 
and jars. 

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” replied Bertie. 

His small face was radiant with delight. 
A pretty, delicate chain adorned the front of 
his velvet jacket, while in the pocket re- 
posed a small jeweled watch. 

“I think it must be nearly time for the 
arrival of your guests, isn’t it, Bertie?” 
said Bernard. “What does that watch of 
yours say?” 

With a most important air the watch was 
brought forth and the face examined care* 
141 


142 


PASSION FLOWERS 


fully for a few minutes. Then Bertie 
nodded. 

“Pretty nearly time/' he replied. 
“They'll be here presently I guess." 

And, presently, they did come-. Mar- 
guerite, Fern, and little Miss Pinkie. Mar- 
guerite shrugged her shoulders as she looked 
around, also when Bertie displayed his new 
watch. 

“It's very pretty," she said to Bernard, 
“ but far too costly to be given to a child ta 
destroy." 

“Oh, but I shall be very careful not to 
hurt it, mamma," replied Bertie, eagerly, 
his little face flushing. 

“I am sure you will, dear," said Fern, 
drawing him towards her. “ Isn't it a beau- 
tiful watch. Pinkie? " 

“Ess," replied Pinkie, nodding her curly, 
flaxen head. She was a charmingly lovely 
child with the plump pink and white beauty 
of a cherub. 

“When I am growed up you shall have 
one just Uke it,'' said Bertie, with a rather 


AND THE CROSS. 


143 


soft look at the small maiden whose blue 
eyes were fixed longingly on the watch. 

**Dat*sa velly long time/^ she replied, 
promptly. ** Tant you div it to me now, 
Bertie.? 

Bertie looked distressed. 

**But I aint got enough money to buy it, 
Pinkie. This watch cost a lot of money.’’ 

Pinkie pouted and Bernard burst into an 
amused laugh. Fern laid her hand on the 
child’s dimpled arm. 

Oh, Pinkie, this is not a nice way to 
act,” she said. ‘'This is Bertie’s birth-day 
and you have said nothing pretty to him 
about it. Can’t you kiss him and wish him 
many happy returns.?” 

Pinkie hung her head and blushed in a 
most conscious manner. Then she gave 
Bertie a coquettish look from under her long 
lashes. 

“Oh, auntie Fern, I don’t tiss boys,” she 
murmured, “ but” holding out a small, fat 
hand towards Bertie. “I tan shake hands 
wiv him and wish him many happy returns.” 


144 


PASSION FLOWERS 


Bertie looked rather crestfallen and dis- 
appointed at that, Bernard and Fern laughed, 
while Marguerite turned away indifferently 
and threw herself into a low chair beside a 
table. Her ungloved hand moving care- 
lessly over its smooth surface came in con- 
tact with a small object which she took up 
and examined. It was a little curiously- 
shaped vial of glittering glass, sealed at the 
top with gold-colored wax, and half full of a 
bluish liquid. 

“Why, what is this, Bernard?” she 
asked, with a sudden curiosity. 

He came over to her and said, smilingly: 

“Do you know, Marguerite, you are 
holding death in your hands?” 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

“Why, one little drop of the liquid in that 
vial is sufficient to cause almost instant 
de^th,” he replied. 

“ Where on earth did you get it, and 
what is the stuff?” she asked, putting down 
the vial, with a gesture of distaste. 

“What a horror you have of death and 


AND THE CROSS. 


145 


everything relating to it, Marguerite,” he 
said, looking at her meditatively. Now I 
have not. I rather look upon death as a so- 
lution to the problem of life’s miseries. The 
fever, the fret, the anguish of life lulled into 
a dreamless sleep to which there will be no 
awakening to take up again earth’s burdens. 
The heart, which has been wounded and 
torn, tortured and racked; silent and still, 
and at rest; victorious, at length, over the 
woes and calamities of the world.” 

He paused abruptly, as he caught the half 
amused, half mocking light in her eyes. 

beg your pardon,” he said, “I really 
had no intention of subjecting you to any- 
thing of this kind.’ 

^^Do you know, Bernard, I think you are 
very ungrateful if you really meant wh^-t 
you said. Fortune has been very kind to 
you. She has given you health, a fair 
amount of good looks, plenty of this world s 
good’s, and—” 

And denied me the one thing I crave 
above all else the world can offer, without 


146 PASSION FLOWERS 


which the rest are worthless/^ he inter- 
rupted her, in a low, passionate tone. 

“The inevitable result,’^ she murmured, 
impatiently, “of any attempt at conversa- 
tion with you, Bernard.’^ Then she added 
aloud: “But you have not satisfied my curi- 
osity yet regarding this little vial. Where 
did you get it?” 

“It was given me by a man stopping here 
who has recently returned from India. He 
and I got into a conversation the other day 
and he told me many of his experiences 
while in India which were both wonderful 
and interesting. He also took me to his 
room and showed me a lot of curious things 
he had collected there. He requested me 
to select some of them and among a few 
other articles I took this little vial simply on 
account of its uniqueness without knowing 
of its deadly contents. He laughed and then 
told me that the bluish liquid in the vial was 
a deadly poison, one drop of which poured 
into the ear of a person would cause death 
in a few moments.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


147 


** It^s probably the same kind of poison 
which was poured into the ear of Hamlet’s 
father as he lay sleeping,” said Marguerite, 
laughing. “ After all, Bernard, it’s rather a 
pleasant death to die, this contained in your 
pretty little vial. To fall asleep and never 
to wake up again, to know nothing of the 
approach of that dread messenger, death; 
but to glide out of life painlessly, unknow- 
ingly. But, heavens! you and your Indian 
poison have really made me morbid. Put 
that horrible, glittering little vial out of sight, 
and let us have luncheon, some champagne 
may drive away the horrors.” 

Bernard laughed, put the vial in his pocket, 
and then rang the bell. 



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IX. 

•‘Like melting wax or withering flower, 

I feel my passion and thy power.” 

A few days later Bernard found it neces- 
sary to return to New York for a little while. 
When he went to bid Bertie goodby, the 
child clung about his neck and began to cry. 

‘‘Oh, Mr. Gray,’^ he sobbed, “I am so 
sorry you are going away. I shall miss you 
so much. Please, please don’t go. 

“Why, Bertie, I shall be back in less 
than a week, perhaps,” said Bernard, sooth- 
ingly. “ It will be Easter then and you and 
I will have a good time taking in all the nice 
things at the theatres. Come, now be a 
little man and let me see you smiling and 
happy before I go.” 

The child swallowed his sobs and bravely 
forced back his tears. 

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Gray,” he said, as he wiped his eyes with 

151 


152 


PASSION FLOWERS 


a very small soiled handkerchief/^ I am 
not a cry-baby. Nurse can tell you that I 
often hurt myself very bad but I never cry 
about it, so please don’t think I am a baby, 
Mr. Gray, ’cause I cried just now. I do 
miss you so when you go away, and — ” 

Notwithstanding his brave efforts the 
tears almost came again. 

‘M know you area brave little chap,” 
said Bernard, laying his hand on the 
soft gold curls. “I shan’t stay away 
long,” with a sigh as he thought how im- 
possible he found it always to stay long 
away. And now, I must be off. Goodby, 
little chap.” 

He lifted the child up and kissed him af- 
fectionately. The sad, wistful tear-stained 
little face haunted him as he went from the 
nursery towards Marguerite’s boudoir, and 
the old feeling of bitterness rose in his heart 
against her as he thought of the lonely un- 
loved child he had just left. 

She was lying back in a low chair when 
he entered* the boudoir, and at the first sight 


AND THE CROSS. 


153 


of her all the bitterness died, as it always 
did, and the passionate, idolatrous love he 
bore her surged up in his heart, but he beat 
it back, determined not to give utterance to 
it so as not to take with him the memory of 
her impatience, distaste, or scorn. She held 
out her hand to him, with a faint, languid 
smile, and, as he drew nearer, he saw that 
she looked pale and haggard. 

‘‘What is it. Marguerite^' he asked, with 
unconcealed anxiety." “Are you ill, 
darling?" 

She frowned, and drew her hand, which 
he still held, impatiently away. 

“For heaven's sake, Bernard, spare me a 
scene. I am not ill, but I really must pro- 
test against this infliction to which you will 
persist in subjecting me. Why will you do 
this? Do you not know that while a woman 
thrills with rapture at expressions of love 
from him she herself loves, equally repul- 
sive to her are the same from the man she 
does not love?" 

The coldness and impatience on her beau- 


-154 PASSION FLOWERS AND THE CROSS. 


tiful pale face pointed forcibly the truth of 
her last words. He drew back, white to 
the lips. 

‘‘You are going away, you have come to 
bid me goodby, have you not?’* she went 
on, coolly. 

“Yes, I am going away, and I have come 
to bid you goodby,” he replied, in a dull, 
mechanical voice. 

“Then let us come to that at once,” she 
said. “I am sorry that I must send you 
away so soon, but, as you see, I am not 
well. So, goodby.” 

Again she held out her hand to him and 
again he took it in his. His miserable, re- 
proachful eyes looked, for a moment, into 
her cool, weary ones, then he dropped her 
hand, and, without a word, went from her 
presence. 


CHAPTER X 



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X. 

“Baob fault, each error Heaven hath marked upon the 
eternal scroll 
Hath sprung from love.” 

It was Holy Thursday, and the streets 
were crowded with people visiting the dif- 
ferent Catholic churches. Many eyes fol- 
lowed the black-robed figure of a priest 
hurrying along Charles street, his eyes bent 
upon the ground, his head on his breast. 
He was the Passionist priest. Father Faber, 
whose wonderful eloquence had drawn such 
crowds to the Cathedral to hear him during 
the last two weeks. He hurried on, oc- 
casionally raising his eyes to glance at the 
numbers of the houses he passed*. At 
length, he paused before one, mounted the 
steps, and rang the bell. 

** I was sent for to see a lady who is sick,^* 
he said to the servant who admitted him. 

**You are expected sir,^* was the answer, 
‘‘please to follow me.^* 

157 


158 


PASSION FLOWERS 


The priest entered, and then followed the 
man through the richly furnished hall, up 
the heavily carpeted stairs, past statues 
gleaming in white, nude beauty from their 
niches, to the second landing. There the 
servant paused and opened a door on the 
right. 

“The priest is here, madam, he said, 
and then as Father Faber crossed the 
threshold, he closed the door and departed. 

The light was soft and subdued, the 
room, a boudoir, beautifully furnished. On 
a satin couch reclined a woman, in a loose 
tea-gown, of soft white silk, with a cloud of 
yellow hair thrown back over the blue silken 
pillows. Her face was white and wan, 
there were purple shadows under her eyes, 
but still the delicate flowery loveliness was 
unmarred. She raised herself on her elbow 
and held out her hand, with a faint smile, 
towards the sombre figure of the priest. He 
paused abruptly. 

“You!” he whispered, hoarsely, “youF'' 

“Ah, I,” she answered, “I.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


159 


“They told me a sick woman wished to 
see me/^ he muttered. 

“They told you the truth,” she softly 
answered. “I am a sick woman and it is 
from you I seek comfort; you alone can give 
it me. See, only two short weeks and I am 
like this. I thought heaven was within my 
reach and I have found instead the tortures 
of hell. The unsatisfied love and longing 
burning in my heart are wearing my life 
away. I cannot bear it. Dear, why are 
you so cruel to me?” 

His head sunk on his breast, a long, long 
sigh left his lips. 

“I have struggled so hard, so hard,” he 
mumured, “1, too, have been in hell. I 
thought I had nearly conquered, and now — ” 

She rose up from the couch, her soft, 
white draperies clung about her as she 
moved, her hair fell over her shoulders like 
a gleaming vail of gold. He lifted his head 
and gazed at her, a great fear and dread in 
his shadowed eyes; one hand wandered to- 
wards the ^;ugifix at his waist then fell 


i6o 


PASSION FLOWERS 


heavily away, and a shudder shook his 
strong frame from head to foot. She came 
close up to him; the same sweet, subtle 
perfume floated to his nostrils and seemed 
to steep his senses like some strong drug. 

Dearest,’’ she whispered, struggle no 
more. It is Fate, which is stronger than 
you or I. We love, and heaven awaits us, 
invites us; love whispers a thousand sweet 
promises Ah, darling, how can we close 
our ears, our hearts, to them? Think of 
the bliss, the rapture of yielding to the love 
which has us in its grasp, the misery and 
torture of its denial.” 

She smiled, the faint, dreamy smile, and 
lifting up her arms, from which the loose 
sleeves slipped back, laid them naked and 
close and warm about his throat. As she 
did so she staggered a little, but still she 
smiled. 

*‘I am very weak,” she whispered, ‘‘but 
I shall soon grow strong within your arms. 
Put them close about me, dear; I have so 
longed to lie within them.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


iC'I 


A deep groan left his lips. Then his 
arms clasped themselves about the perfect 
loose-clad form, his hands entangling them- 
selves in the perfumed hair which flowed 
over his breast. She lay heavily against 
him and raised her lips to meet his. Her 
bosom rose and fell pantingly as they met 
and lingered together. 

'‘You have conquered,” he muttered 
hoarsely, with his lips still to hers. 

"Would you have it otherwise.?” she 
whispered. "You lay down your arms at 
heaven’s gate, my love, my love.” 



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CHAPTER XI 


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XI. 

“Ah, the pity of It.” 

It was Good Friday night. The altar was 
stripped of the soft waxen lights and sweet 
white flowers of Holy Thursday, and the 
purple draperies of woe and mourning again 
took their places. The Cathedral was 
densely crowded, for, by special request. 
Father Faber was to preach for the last 
time. 

Tenebrae was nearly over — softly through 
the darkened church swelled the notes of 
the Benedictus. Then the lights blazed up 
again, and Father Faber came forward and 
ascended into the pulpit. The glowing 
eyes, which usually swept over the church, 
were lowered; the head was bent; the dark 
face strangely haggard and very pale. For 
an unusually long time he remained silent, 
and then began to speak. 

Almost all within the church had heard 
165 


i66 


PASSION FLOWERS 


the same subject preached upon on Good 
Friday night, but no one there had ever 
heard before, nor ever would hear again, 
anything to equal the story of the passion 
and suffering of the world’s Redeemer as it 
came from the lips of the Passionist priest. 
Always before when he had spoken the 
thrilling, magnetic voice had thundered 
forth, echoing through and through the 
domed building, but now it was never 
raised, but often faltered and trembled as 
he painted, in words of exquisite beauty, 
marvelous eloquence and infinite pathos. 
Calvary’s history, until strong men wept 
and women sobbed aloud. 

For two hours he spoke, holding his listen- 
ers enchained, enthralled, then brought his 
sermon to a close with the last words of 
Jesus Christ upon the cross: “ It is finished.” 
With them he turned, descended from the 
pulpit, and knelt down at the foot of the 
altar. His lips moved dumbly, as he raised 
his eyes to the crucifix at the back of the 
altar, framing again the words he had spoken 


AND THE CROSS. 


167 


but a few moments before — “ It is finished.’’ 

Then he arose, and, with bowed head, 
passed out of the sanctuary. 



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XII. 


“ My curdling blood, my maddening brain, 

In silent anguish I sustain.” 

The following afternoon Bernard Gray 
was hastening along Fifth avenue, New 
York. He was on his way to Maillard’s to 
lay in a supply of sweet things for Bertie, 
and then to take the train for Baltimore. His 
handsome, fair face was flushed and eager. 
He was going back to her — to fresh torture 
and more pain, but still to her. In a few 
hours he would see that lovely face — cold 
and mocking, or weary and indifferent, per- 
haps ; but still it was the one sight for which 
he hungered and longed. 

Bernard Gray was almost without any 
family ties. His mother had died at his 
birth, his father a few years later, leaving 
his only child to the guardianship of an old 
friend, and with a comfortable fortune, Ber- 
nard had hardly known a care until Mar- 
171 


172 PASSION FLOWEPvS 


guerite Loring came into his life. Since 
that time she had filled it to the exclusion of 
all else. Upon the altar of this mad, hope- 
less passion he had sacrificed the ambition of 
his boyhood and manhood, which was to 
have been som.ething more than an idler 
drifting pleasantly down life’s stream. His 
father had been an eminent and talented 
lawyer, and it had been his son’s greatest 
desire to follow in his footsteps. He was 
all ready to enter upon the practice of his 
chosen profession when he was summoned 
to Loring’s death-bed. His mad passion for 
Marguerite Loring from that time seemed to 
wither up his ambition, to paralyze his ener- 
gies, to dull his talents, to stifle those eager 
hopes and noble anticipations which had be- 
fore been the strongest feelings of his life. 

Bernard went along rapidly until he came 
to Twenty -seventh street. Here, happen- 
ing to glance up at the windows of the 
Brunswick Hotel, he paused and uttered a 
sudden exclamation. He was almost sure 
that he saw Marguerite Loring’s face at one 


AND THE CROSS. 


173 


of the upper windows. The next moment 
he went on, with a smile at his folly. 

“ I am beginning to imagine every fair- 
faced, golden-haired woman is she,” he 
murmured to himself, with a half sigh. 

About six hours later he was leaving 
Camden Station, Baltimore. As he came 
out he looked at his watch. It was just 
nine o’clock, still early enough to see Mar- 
guerite that evening. He called a hansom, 
and in about twenty minutes was ringing 
the bell of Marguerite’s house, his heart 
beating quickly at the thought of so soon look- 
ing again upon her lovely face and listening 
to the low, languid tones of her voice. That 
would be bliss enough after having been 
deprived of both for little over a week. 

‘Ms Mrs. Loring in.?” he asked, when the 
man opened the door. 

“Mrs. Loring is in New York, sir,” was 
the reply; “she left this morning.” 

“In New York,” repeated Bernard, with 
a blank feeling of disappointment. “Why, 
it must have been she I saw at the window 


174 


PASSION FLOWERS 


of the Brunswick,” he added, involuntarily. 
“Do you know to which hotel your mistress 
has gone?” he asked the man. 

“I do not, sir; though I believe my mis- 
tress generally stops at the Fifth Avenue,” 

Bernard stood for a moment irresolute. 
Then he roused himself and asked: 

“Has Master Bertie gone to bed?” 

“No, sir; I think Master Bertie is waiting 
up to see you,” was the answer. 

“Very well,” and Bernard entered. “Tell 
Master Bertie’s nurse that I am here and 
would like to see him if it is not too late.” 

The servant threw open the drawing- 
room doors and Bernard went in. The long, 
beautiful rooms were but dimly lighted and 
there was a heavy odor of hot-house flowers. 
Marguerite was passionately fond of flowers, 
and always had her rooms filled with them. 
Their perfume brought back to Bernard the 
night about two weeks ago, when he came 
at the same hour and Marguerite returned 
when he had hardly hoped to see her that 
evening. He remembered how his heart 


AND THE CROSS. 


175 


had leaped when he turned and saw her 
standing on the threshold, her gold-colored 
hair gleaming against the rich darkness of 
her furs, which brought out also the lily 
fairness of the face above them. 

He moved restlessly about, filled with a 
strange, dreary disquiet, for which he could 
not account. He paused at length beside 
a low, white silk chair, with violets hand- 
painted upon it, in which Marguerite had 
most often sat. He smelt the sweet, faint 
perfume, which seemed a part of her, as he 
bent caressingly over the chair, and his 
pulses leaped and his heart beat quicker. 
He pressed his lips passionately to the back 
of the chair where so often her fair head 
had rested. Then, with a long sigh, he re- 
commenced his restless pacing back and 
forth. 

In a few moments, however, the door 
was thrown eagerly open, a small figure 
bounded across the room, threw itself upon 
him, while two small, loving arms clasped 
him tightly around the knee. 


176 


PASSION FLOWERS 


*‘Oh, Mr. Gray, dear Mr. Gray, you have 
come back! I am so glad, so glad!” cried 
Bertie, almost breathlessly. 

‘^Well, little chap, how are you?” said 
Bernard, lifting up the child and kissing him. 
The small face was perfectly radiant with 
delight. 

“lam very well; are you well? Oh, Mr. 
Gray, I have been watching for you ever 
since I had my supper. Mamma told nurse 
I was to sit up until you came. Nurse was 
mad about it, but I didn’t mind that; I was 
too glad about you coming back.” 

“ You say mam.ma told nurse to let you sit 
up to see me, Bertie?” said Bernard. “When 
did she do so?” 

“Why, just before she went away this 
morning,” replied the child. “She came 
into the nursery after she was already to go 
and told that to nurse. And she gave nurse 
a note which I was to give to you, and here 
it is,” producing from the pocket of his 
blouse, with a great air of importance, a 
creamy-hued envelope. Bernard took it 
eagerly. 


AND THE CROSS. 


177 


“ Excuse me, little chap,” he said, “ while 
I read what your mamma has written me.” 

He was standing near a large jardiniere 
filled with beautiful jacqueminot roses. Their 
perfume filled his nostrils as, with eager 
hands and with beating heart, he broke the 
seal of the envelope and took out the writ- 
ten sheet. These were the words: 

"‘When you read this, my dear Bernard, 
the Marguerite Loring you have known will 
be dead, and in Jier place will live a woman 
rich in the possession of an immeasurable 
rapture, standing, trembling and thrilling, 
upon the threshold of that heaven, the 
golden key to which is love. Do you re- 
member my telling you that if 1 loved, the 
world might all know it, and the world 
might all go for it? Well, I did not speak 
idly — I now fulfill those words. 1 go to-day 
to meet the man I love with every fibre of 
my being. You and the world know him as 
Father Faber, a Passionist priest; his world 
and my world henceforth will be in each 
other’s arms. One word more: I deliver 


178 


PASSION FLOWElPwS 


over to you whatever claim I may have on 
the child, Bertie. This arrangement will be 
pleasing, I am sure, both to you and to him. 
And now, my dear Bernard, farewell, a 
long farewell. As I said before, the Mar- 
guerite Loring you knew is dead; learn to 
think of her thus.” 

A strange, discordant laugh rang out 
through the room. The child, waiting in 
patient silence, looked up with an answering 
smile. 

“Did mamma say something very funny 
in her letter, Mr. Gray.?” he asked. 

Funny? Bernard moved away from the 
odor of the roses, pushing the child almost 
roughly aside. Going to the window, he 
put aside its lace and brocaded draperies, 
and, throwing up the sash, leaned far out. 
The cold air, after a few moments, did away 
with the deadly faintness which had almost 
seemed to suck out his life. He lowered the 
sash, and turned back into the room. Bertie 
came timidly up to him, gazing wistfully in 
his colorless face. 


AND THE CROSS. 


179 


“Dear Mr. Gray, are you sick.?” he 
asked. 

“ I think it must have been the odor or 
the roses which made me feel so faint, 
Bertie,” he answered in a dull, mechanical 
voice. “I am all right now.” 

He paused, and passed his handkerchief 
over hiS” brow, on which the cold sweat 
stood in great drops. 

“I must go away again,” he went on, in 
the same dull voice. “I must go back to 
New York.” 

‘ ‘ Go away again .? go back to N e w Y ork .? * * 
repeated Bertie. “ Oh, Mr. Gray, I thought 
you had come to stay.” 

The childish lips were quivering with bit- 
ter disappointment. Bernard laid his hand 
gently on the curly head. 

“I shall come back soon; perhaps in a 
day, Bertie,” he said. “But I must go 
now. Be a good, brave little boy; bid me 
good-bye, and then go to nurse.” 

Bertie forced back his tears and held up 
his face to be kissed. 


l8o PASSION FLOWERS AND THE CROSS. 


“Good-by, Mr. Gray,” he said in a 
voice rendered shrill from his efforts to con- 
trol it. “Please come back again very» 
very soon.” 

“Yes, very soon,” was the answer, and 
he bent and kissed the uplifted, childish face. 



CHAPTER XIII. 



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“That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind.” 

Easter Sunday morning, but a most un- 
propitious Easter, for the skies were dull 
and leaden and a heavy rain was steadily 
falling. Marguerite Loring turned from the 
window and looked, with soft, radiant eyes, 
about her pretty private parlor. There all 
was fragrance and beauty. Hot-house roses 
everywhere. Her own dainty hands had 
arranged them in vases and jars and bowls, 
on tables, mantel and window-sill. Only 
roses, for though they had sent her with 
them some exquisite snowy Easter lilies, 
she had made the servants take them away, 
turning from them with a gesture of repul- 
sion. Only roses, the flower of love, must 
greet him — not the white Easter lilies with 
which the altars would be decked. 

183 


1 84 


PASSION FLOWERS 


After looking around the pretty, flower- 
decked room, she moved slowly to a full- 
length mirror and gazed intently at the form 
and face it reflected back. The clinging 
tea-gown of soft, rose-tinted silk and creamy 
laces defined every voluptuous line and 
curve of figure. The laces fell away from 
the throat, leaving the beautiful neck bare 
to the full ivory bosom. The loose sleeves 
fell back from the tapering arms. The face, 
with its exquisite white loveliness; the hair, 
a mass of gleaming gold. She smiled at the 
picture, and a rush of joyous exaltation 
thrilled her from head to foot. 

am glad, so glad,” she whispered, 
“that I have all these treasures to lay at 
the feet of my king. Ah!” stretching out 
her arms towards the loveliness the mirror 
gave back, “I love you, I love you for his 
dear sake.” 

There came a low tap at the door. She 
turned, with a smothered exclamation, and 
her hand went to her heart. 

“Come,” she murmured, and a bell-boy 
entered. 


AND THE CROSS. 


^5 

“There was a gentleman below to see 
Mrs. Loring/’ he said. 

“Yes, let him come up,’^ she answered. 

She was alone again. She stood quite mo- 
tionless, her hand crushed in the laces over 
her heart, her breath coming quickly, her 
eyes — full of love, passion, joy — fixed upon 
the door by which he would come to her. 
She seemed to count each moment by the 
throbbings of her heart. Then the door 
opened, and a man’s tall form crossed the 
threshold. A man who looked strangely 
out of place in that pretty, flower-decked 
room and in the presence of the radiant, 
daintily-clad woman, with his white, hag- 
gard face, wild eyes, unkempt head and 
rain-wet garments. The reaction turned 
her for a moment sick and faint, then she 
moved a little forward and looked at him 
with cold, angry eyes. 

“How dare you, how dare you.^*’’ she 
cried furiously. “Go; go, at once. Not 
one word — I will not listen to you. How 
dare you so presume.?” 


PASSION FLOWERS. 


1 86 


He did not seem to hear her; he was gaz- 
ing at her with a long, devouring look. The 
next moment he was kneeling at her feet, 
the soft laces of her gown crushed in his 
hands, while he pressed wild, passionate, 
pitiful kisses on its silken folds. 

‘‘Marguerite, oh. Marguerite!” he half 
sobbed. 

She stood motionless, looking down upon 
him, and the anger in her eyes gave place 
to the old mocking light, and the mocking, 
half scornful smile parted her lips. 

“Always a scene, my dear Bernard,” she 
said, “always a scene. Have you forced 
yourself upon me to afford me this as a last 
treat.? Well, it must be brief; indeed, it 
had best end now. Please arise from that 
extremely ridiculous position.” 

She drew her gown from his grasp. He 
arose, staggering a little, to his feet. 

“Thank God,” he murmured, “that I 
have not come too late.” 

“That you have not come too late, for 
what?” she asked, with a cold, mocking 
smile. 


AND THE CROSS. 


187 


“To save you/^ he answered, in a trem- 
bling voice. “You will come back with me, 
Marguerite? No one knows; your good 
name is unjtarnished. Thank heaven for 
that, and also that I knew where to find 
you, darling. You were mad when you took 
such a step as this, dear; perhaps even now 
you regret it. But it is not too late to re- 
trace it, thank God.'' 

A low, scornful laugh interrupted him. 

“Do I look as though I regretted it?" she 
asked, smiling coldly into his haggard eyes. 
“Really, Bernard, it surprises me that, 
after all these years, you should so little 
know me as to waste your time in speaking 
tome as you have just done. But, after 
all, how should you know me as I now am? 
As I wrote you, the Marguerite Loring you 
knew — that weary, indifferent, joyless 
woman— is dead. She died, I think, when 
first she loved. She who lives in her place 
has given her heart, her soul, her. very 
being into the keeping of another. She 
loves — as woman rarely loved before— so 


PASSION FLOWERS 


1 88 


madly, so passionately, so fondly, that she 
longs for a thousand honors to lay at his 
feet, a thousand empty worlds to lose for 
his dear sake. Purity, honor, the world’s 
respect, bah! they are but small prices to 
pay for the bliss of his love. Would I had 
fifty times as much I should still count it but 
little. I would rather have one kiss from 
his lips than all the pleasures humanity has 
ever known or ever will know. He is my 
love, my lord, my king. Go, tell the world 
to forget me, as I shall forget it — in his 
arms.” 

A bitter curse left Bernard’s lips. He 
sprang forward and caught her arm in a 
grasp which almost brought a scream of 
pain to her lips. A dull, red flush had risen 
in the pallor of his face; his eyes had the 
look of a mad-man for a moment. 

”Hush, woman,” he cried, hoarsely, 
” lest your words drive me mad and I kill 
you before your lover’s polluting hand 
touches you.” 

She never flinched, thougti her lips 


AND THE CROSS. 


189 


whitened under the pain of his grasp upon 
her tender flesh. She looked calmly up into 
his eyes, which had the look almost of a 
maniac in them, and she smiled scornfully. 

‘‘Have you heard enough? Will you go 
now?’^ she asked quietly. “Your presence 
is an intrusion, your violence an affront.'* 

His hand dropped from her arm, his white 
lips quivered, a dull look of utter, hopeless 
despair settled over his haggard face. 

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, “let m^ go; I 
will go at once. 1 — I was wrong to come, 
but — but I did not know, I did not under- 
stand ” 

He did not look at her again, though at 
the threshold of the door he paused for a 
moment and half turned his head. Then 
she heard him mutter: “No, no, I must 
not.” The next moment he had opened 
the door and was gone. 

A little later another man passed over 
that threshold. The priestly robes were 
gone, but the dark face was scarcely less 
white than that of the other man whose 


IQO PASSION FLOWERS AND THE CROSS. 


heart had broken in that room but a short 
while before. He paused, also, and gazed 
around him at the pretty room, the fragrant 
roses, and, lastly, at Marguerite as she rose 
up from her chair and turned to meet him, 
with love-lit eyes that drooped, and a faint, 
tremulous smile on the parted, scarlet lips. 
And as he looked at her a dark-red flush 
rose up slowly over the pallor of his face. 
All was forgotten then save that she was a 
woman, beautiful, tender, passionate, and 
that she was his. 

‘‘Marguerite,’' he whispered, speaking 
her name for the first time. 

“Oh, my love, my love,” she murmured, 
as she lay in his arms and lifted her panting 
lips for his kisses, “at last the gates of 
heaven open to us.” 


CHAPTER XIY 



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XIY. 

“ When circled by Love’s fatal fire 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.” 

“Nurse, do you think Mr. Gray will come 
to-day?’* 

Every morning for one whole month, the 
very longest and dreariest month of Bertie’s 
short life, the wistful, childish lips had 
asked that same question. Not that it ever 
received any very satisfactory answer, as. 
nurse only rolled up her eyes and threw up 
her hands with a muttered: 

“Shure, and the good Lord save us, but 
it’s a wicked warld, and a blissing it is that 
the innocent lamb can’t understind. There, 
darlint, go git yer playthings and amuse 
yerself. Shure, it’s meself as thanks the 
Blissed Vargin and the Holy Saints that yer 
can’t understind the ways of this wicked 
warld.” 

But Bertie did not care for his playthings. 

193 


194 


PASSION FLOWERS 


He would turn away, with a little sigh, arid 
climb upon the broad, cushioned window- 
sill from which place he could look down 
into the street. He spent the greater part 
of the day there, watching and watching. 
Many and many a time his little heart had 
bounded at the sight of some tall figure in 
the street below, only to sink with bitter 
disappointment as it drew nearer. 

He said he would come back very soon,’* 
the child would murmur to himself sadly, 
and there lay the bitterest sting of all to the 
little troubled heart, for never before had 
'Bernard broken his promise. For a long 
time the child did not appear to notice the 
absence of his mother (he was not used to 
seeing much of her), but one day, as he sat 
perched upon the window-sill, he suddenly 
electrified nurse by quietly inquiring: 

“When is mamma coming home, nurse?” 
, Poor nurse, whose nerves were unsettled 
by the events of the last month or so, 
jumped in her chair. 

. “By-and-by^ me darlint,” she answered; 


AND THE CROSS. 


195 


*‘and may the good Lord forgive me for the 
He,” she added, to herself. 

‘‘Everybody had gone away,” thought 
poor little Bertie. Even his dear Miss Fern 
had gone a long time ago without bidding 
him good-bye. 

So on this particular morning he sat on 
the'window-sill, gazing out, his small, wist- 
ful face pressed close against the window- 
pane. Nurse was dozing comfortably in 
her big rocking-chair. Suddenly a hansom 
drove up next door, and, to Bertie’s intense 
excitement and delight, who should jump 
out but his own dear Miss Fern. Without a 
moment’s hesitation Bertie sprang down 
from the window-sill, crept by nurse, whose 
deep, melodious snores proved her fast-locked 
in the arms of Morpheus, opened the door, 
with trembling, eager hands, and then flew 
down the stairs as fast as his small feet 
could carry him. 

A few moments later, as Fern was just 
entering her own door, she heard a shrill# 
eager voice calling her name. 


196 


PASSION FLOWERS 


‘'Miss Fern, oh, my dear Miss Fern!*^ and 
Bertie climbed pantingly up the steps after 
her and threw himself upon her, with a 
shout of delight. The girl’s face flushed, 
but she said, affectionately: 

“Why, my little Bertie, where did you 
come from?” 

“I saw you from the window,” cried 
Bertie, breathlessly. “Nurse was asleep, 
so I just crept by her and ran down to 
you. I was afraid if I didn’t catch you now 
I mightn’t see you at all, for — for everybody 
seems gone away now.” 

Fern turned pale and her lips quivered. 
She bent tenderly over the child and kissed 
him hastily. 

“Listen to me, dear,” she said, gently. 
“You must not stay now, for Nurse will be 
frightened. Go back, like my own, good 
little Bertie, and I will come in to see you 
this afternoon and stay a nice long time.” 

“Oh, will you, will you really, dear Miss 
Fern?” and the radiant delight on the small, 
pale face made the girl’s heart beat pain- 


AND THE CROSS. 


197 


fully. “I am so lonely, with nobody but 
nurse to talk to — you will really come?’’ 

Yes, dear, I will really come. Now kiss 
me and run back home, and tell nurse I say 
please not to scold you this time.” 

Bertie had had his dinner and was sitting 
in his own small rocking-chair, wishing the 
hours would go a little quicker and bring his 
dear Miss Fern. He decided not to watch 
for her from the window, for it seemed to 
Bertie that if one watched for a person that 
person was sure not to come. Nurse had 
drawn her chair to the window and divided 
her time between the sewing on her lap and 
gazing down into the street. It was a beau- 
tiful, sunny, spring afternoon, and many 
handsome equipages dashed by on their way 
to the park. Nurse, as she watched them, 
shook her head gloomily and broke into 
soliloquy: 

‘‘Shure, and she was the biggest of them 
all a short time ago, and what be she now? 
And he a praste of the Holy Church! the 
good Lord forgive me for a-sayin’ of it. It 


PASSION FLOWERS 


•198 


is meself as ain’t recovered from the shock 
of it yit. 'Shure, and it was the divil’s own 
.work; it’s little he can’t do with poor human 
•critters when he’s a mind to. ‘Notapraste/ 
cried I, ‘ niver a bit will I belave it. Bridget 
'McCarthy’s too good a Catholic to belave 
Ihe wickedness of it.’ Then up speaks me 
lady’s pert maid: ‘Yis, but the praste it is> 
Mrs. McCarthy, and it was good taste had 
misthress. I seen him meself when he came 
that day, and a fin^r figger of a man, with all 
his black gown, I niver expects to see.’ 
‘Holdyer tongue, yer bold, pert hussy,’, 
cried I. ‘Shure, and it’s not the likes — ’” 

Nurse’s soliloquy came to an abrupt close. 
The nursery door had opened suddenly and 
a man stood there — such a pale-faced, hoi- 
jow-eyed man, with sunken cheeks and 
shaven head, that, for a moment, neither 
the woman nor child knew him. Then Ber- 
tie sprang to his feet, with a shout of joy, 
and bounded forward. 

“Oh, Mr. Gray, my own dear Mr. Gray, 
you have come back at last!’’ 


AND THE CROSS. 


199 


**How do you do, little chap?’’ said Ber- 
nard, a smile lighting up his wan face. 

He bent and kissed very tenderly the 
child’s smiling, happy lips, then, holding his 
hand, he came forward. Nurse had risen 
quickly and brought forward an easy chair. 

**And how are you, nurse?” Bernard 
asked, as he sank weakly into it. 

*Mt’s only middlin’ I be, thank yer, sir. 
But, shure, it was a turn yer gave me, Mr. 
Gray, a-comin’ in like that. I thought yer 
was a ghost for shure, sir, a-askin’ yer par- 
don for a-sayin’ it.” 

“I am afraid I do look rather ghostly,” 
replied Bernard, with a faint smile. Then 
he laid his hand tenderly on Bertie’s soft, 
gold curls as the child nestled up close 
against him, and gazed, with loving, anxious 
eyes, into his face. 

‘"And what has my little Bertie been 
doing all this time?” he asked. 

** I have been watching for you, Mr. Gray. 
You know you told me you would be back 
very soon, and — and you know you had 


200 


PASSION FLOWERS 


always come when you promised. Have 
you been sick, Mr. Gray, the reason you 
didn^t come?” 

” Why was he not told that I was ill?” 
asked Bernard, somewhat sternly, of nurse. 

”Shure, sir, and I was afraid he would 
only fret the more about yer.” 

“Yes, but he would have known that it 
was not my fault that I broke my promise 
to him. That was why I did not come, Ber- 
tie; I have been very, very ill. I think I 
only tried to live, my poor little chap, for 
your sake. It was the thought of you which 
kept me from sinking contentedly beneath 
the dark waters.” 

He paused and sat staring straight before 
him for a few moments. In the background 
nurse kept up a pantomime of woe, rolling 
up her eyes and shaking her head. The 
child moved closer and smoothed with his 
small fingers the thin, white hand resting 
caressingly on his arm. With a sigh Ber- 
nard roused himself. 

“And now, Bertie,” he said, “you and 


AND THE CROSS. 


201 


I are not going to part any more. Would 
you like to live with me always?’* 

Live with you always?” repeated Ber- 
tie, in a voice of incredulous rapture. ‘*Oh, 
Mr. Gray, do you really mean it? But,” 
his voice falling, will mamma let me when 
she comes back?” 

A short silence followed, while Bertie 
stared up breathlessly into Bernard’s face 
and waited for him to speak. 

‘‘Listen to me, Bertie,” he said at length, 
and his voice had a hoarse, strained sound, 
as though he spoke with an effort. “Your 
mother has gont away for a long time, and 
she left you to me. I want you to be a very 
happy little boy, and — ” 

He paused and looked up as the nursery 
door opened, and Fern Howard came into 
the room. At the sight of Bernard she 
stopped abruptly and the color died out of 
her face, but the next moment she recovered 
herself and came forward, holding out her 
hand to him, though she was still very pale. 

“Do not get up, please,” she said, with 


202 


PASSION FLOWERS 


only a faint tremulousness in her voice, as 
Bernard started to rise. “I am so glad to 
see that you are better, Mr. Gray.” 

“Thank you,” he answered, as he held 
her hand for a moment in his. “And you, 
have you been well?” 

“I? oh, yes,” she replied. “I have just 
returned from visiting some friends in Bos- 
ton; and I found a very lonely little boy,” 
with a smile at Bertie, “but he is all right 
now.” 

“Oh, my dear Miss Fern,” cried Bertie, 
catching her hand and drawing her towards 
him, then nestling his curly head first against 
her and then against Bernard, “what do 
you think? 1 am going to live always with 
Mr. Gray. Mamma has gone away for a 
long time. Now, if you would only come 
with us we would be perfectly happy.” 

A hot flush rose up over the girl’s face. 
She bent her head down over the child. 

“You will be very happy anyway, dear,” 
she said, gently; “and Mr. Gray will let us 
see each other sometimes, I am sure.” . 


AND THE CROSS. 


203 


** It would be very cruel in me to separate 
Bertie entirely from one of whom he is so 
fond,” replied Bernard, with the faint smile 
which only seemed to touch his lips. ** The 
doctors tell me I must go to the sea. As 
soon as nurse can get herself and Bertie 
ready we will start for Nahant Beach. I 
have rented a small cottage there for some 
months. I do not feel strong enough for 
hotel life yet.” 

He lifted his hand wearily to his brow. 
He looked so white and wan that Fern ex- 
claimed hastily: 

“You are over-exerting yourself, Mr. 
Gray. You are really not strong enough to 
have undertaken a journey. Let nurse have 
you some wine brought up; it will strengthen 
you.” 

“You are very good to me,” he said, 
rather faintly. “Yes, nurse, a little wine, 
please.” 

“It’s mortal bad he looks, to be shure,” 
muttered nurse, as she rang the bell. “ Och, 
what a warld this be!” 


204 PASSION FLOWERS AND THE CROSS. 


When the wine was brought, Fern poured 
out a glass and brought it to Bernard. As 
he took it from her he looked up into her 
face — so fair, so gentle, so womanly — and 
sighed a little. After drinking the wine he 
rose, saying he must go back to Rennert’s. 

“And won’t ye stay here, Mr. Gray?” 
said nurse. “Ye’ll be more comfortable thin 
at the hotel. Ye looks like ye need some- 
body to look after ye'yit.” 

“No, no,” he replied, hastily, with a 
slight quiver of the lips, “I could not stay 
here. I will come again to-morrow, nurse, 
and we will make all arrangements. Good- 
by, little chap.” 

He bent his head and kissed the child, 
then held out his hand to Fern. 

“Good-by, Miss Howard.” 

He was gone the next moment, and nurse 
was shaking her head, and Fern was bend- 
ing over Bertie to hide the trembling of her 
lips and the bitter tears which filled her eyes. 


t 




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CHAPTER XV, 



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XV. 


^‘And form so soft, and charms so rare. 

Too soon returned to earth.” 

It was the middle of August. The season 
at Bar Harbor was at its height. Fern 
Howard, with her mother, had been there 
for two months. Her fair, girlish beauty 
had won her much admiration and at- 
tention. She had taken part in all the 
gaieties, and, perhaps, only her mother 
guessed how empty and joyless it all was to 
her, and saw how the shadow never faded 
from the blue eyes, though the lips smiled 
so often. 

In vain Mrs. Howard looked for some sign 
that the girl was getting over her unfortu- 
nate attachment and learning to be happy 
again. In vain she longed and prayed that 
it might be so, and watched the girTs face 
to see the shadow fade from it, and the old 
peace and happiness come back. Some- 
207 . 


208 


PASSION FLOWERS 


times she grew bitterly impatient, and one 
evening when Fern came into her room 
dressed for a ball, but with the same sad 
look in her blue eyes and with such weary 
indifference as to how well her pretty, 
dainty white dress became her girlish fair- 
ness, Mrs. Howard broke out, with impatient 
bitterness: 

“I do not see, Fern,^’ she cried, “how 
you can go on loving and pining for a man 
who has nearly died of his love for another 
woman — whose whole soul is in that woman ’s 
keeping. Do you intend to waste your en- 
tire life for a man who will never give you 
a thought? 

A hot flush rose up all over the girl’s face 
and then faded, leaving her very pale. But 
already the mother had regretted bitterly 
her hasty, cruel words, and, clasping the 
girl in her arms, was crying over her and 
asking her forgiveness. 

“I gave him my love before I knew,” 
Fern whispered, with her head hidden on 
her mother’s breast. “I cannot take it 


AND THE CROSS. 


209 


back — at least, not yet. Perhaps, after 
awhile I may find peace, but it has not come 
to me yet, it has not come to me yet, 
mamma.” 

One morning, a few weeks later, as Mrs. 
Howard and her daughter were leaving the 
dining-room, a telegram was handed to the 
latter. She took it and, opening it, read it 
hastily aloud. 

‘‘From Bernard Gray, Nahant, Mass., to 
Miss Fern Howard, Bar Harbor, Maine.” 

“ Bertie is dying, and asks for you. Will 
you come at once?” 

A low cry of pain left the girl’s lips. She 
looked, with startled eyes, up into her 
mother’s shocked face. 

“Oh, mamma, can it be possible!” she 
cried. “My poor little Bertie dying? I 
must go to him at once. You see, Mr. Gray 
says he has asked for me.” 

She burst into tears, and Mrs. Howard 
drew her hastily upstairs. 

It was early on the following morning 
when Mrs. Howard and Fern reached their 


210 


PASSION FLOWERS 


destination. They had gone immediately to 
the cottage occupied by Bernard. It stood 
on a rather isolated part of the beach very 
near the sea. As they went up on to the 
little porch facing the ocean they could see 
no one nor hear a sound. A sob rose in 
Fern’s throat as she saw on the floor of the 
porch a small sailor hat and a toy bucket 
and shovel. Just then some one came rap- 
idly from around the side of the house and 
up the steps. It was Bernard Gray. He 
started at the sight of them, and then came 
quickly forward. 

“This is kind in you,” he said, as, after 
shaking hands with Mrs. Howard, he turned 
to Fern, with a grateful look in his haggard 
eyes. 

The girl’s heart ached with infinite pity 
as she gazed at him, and even the bitter- 
ness the elder woman had felt for him van- 
ished at the sight of the wan, pale face and 
quiet, hopeless misery in the blue eyes. 

“Tell me of Bertie,” faltered Fern. “I — 
I am in time?” 


AND THE CROSS. 


211 


he answered, ‘‘though it is almost 
over. Poor little chap, his sufferings will 
not last much longer now.^’ 

“Oh, Mr. Gray,’^ cried Fern, bursting 
into a passion of tears, “ I cannot realize that 
my poor little Bertie is dying, really dying. 
Why, it seems only yesterday that he ran 
in to bid me good-by, his sweet, little face 
so bright, so happy, so full of health. I can 
feel his arms about my neck now and hear 
his voice as he said: ‘Good-by, my dear, 
dear Miss Fern. Mr. Gray says I shall see 
you soon again. That’s the reason I don’t 
mind bidding you good-by now so very 
much.’ He had such a faithful, loving little 
heart.” 

She paused and sobbed bitterly. Bernard 
looked at her gently. 

“I took him away from you a happy, 
healthy boy,” he said, “and 1 give him 
back to you with only a few hours of life 
left in his poor little body. It’s a wonder 
you do not hate me. Miss Howard.” 

“No, no!” she cried, hastily. 


212 


PASSION FLOWERS 


‘‘He was the only thing I had to love in 
the world,” he went on, ‘‘and I had conse- 
crated my life to making his a bright and 
happy one; and he was very, very happy 
all during the summer. Miss Howard — hap- 
pier, poor little chap, than he had ever been 
in all his short life before. He played on 
the beach; he rode his pony which I 
had brought here for him — in a word, he 
found the day one long delight. And, then 
suddenly, about ten days ago, he seemed 
to lose interest in everything — he could not 
eat, he grew languid and pale, and wanted to 
sleep all the time. I sent for a doctor. He 
pronounced it fever, with a tendency towards 
typhoid. Everything was done to ward it 
off, but in vain. In his delirium he called con- 
stantly for you, also when the delirium left 
him. I sent, feeling sure you would come. 
Would you like to go to him now?” 

‘‘Yes, at once, please,” replied Fern. 

Mrs. Howard did not accompany them. 
She was worn-out with travelling all night, 
and Bernard called a maid and had her 


AND THE CROSS. 


213 


shown to a bed-room where she could rest. 
He then led Fern up the small, narrow stair- 
way and into a room on the first landing. It 
was a pretty little room, with two windows 
which faced the sea. A small, white bed 
stood near one of them. Nurse, her eyes 
red and swollen, rose up from the side of it, 
so that Fern might approach. It was with 
difficulty that Fern restrained her tears at 
the sight of the small figure stretched upon 
the bed — the little, wan, colorless face, in 
which the dark eyes looked far too large. 
They had cut away all the beautiful golden 
curls. A sudden light came into the languid 
eyes as Fern bent over him. 

“Oh, my dear Miss Fern! I am so glad to 
see you,’' he whispered. 

She kissed tenderly the little white cheek. 
She could not trust herself to ;>peak just yet. 

“Mr. Gray said you would be sure to 
come when you knew how sick I had been,” 
went on the weak, childish voice. “ I think I 
shall soon be well now; for all the bad pain 
has gone and I am not so awful hot any 


214 


PASSION FLOWERS. 


more. You will stay, won’t you, Miss Fern, 
until I get right well again? I want to take 
you on the beach and show you the beauti- 
ful sea when the waves come in. I love the 
sea. And then Jock, my pony, is here — 
Mr. Gray sent for him. You always liked 
Jock, didn’t you? You will stay, won’t 
you, dear Miss Fern? It won’t be very long 
now before I am well again.” 

” Yes, yes, darling, I will stay,” answered 
Fern, tenderly. - 

Bernard came up to the bed and bent 
down tenderly. Fern’s lips quivered as she 
watched the look of deathless love which 
came into the child’s dark eyes. 

‘‘You must not talk any more now, little 
chap,” said Bernard. “You will tire your- 
self. Miss Fern will stay with you and so 
will I. Try to sleep.” 

Bertie smiled happily. 

“You and Miss Fern will stay with me,” 
he murmured, and then closed his eyes obe- 
diently. 

The day wore on and they watched be- 


AND THE CROSS. 


215 


side him — Mrs. Howard and nurse at the 
foot of the bed; Fern and Bernard on either 
side. The doctor came in about twilight, 
looked at the child, and then went away. 

can do nothing, he said; few 
hours will end it.” 

A dim light burned in the room, but the 
windows were thrown wide open, and the 
moonlight streamed in a silvery flood across 
the small bed where the child lay. The 
sound of the waves breaking on the beach 
alone broke the silence. The boy slept fit- 
fully for some hours, then he began to grow 
more restless, moving his head from side to 
side, and picking, with his small, thin fingers, 
at the bed-clothes. 

'‘Bertie,” said Bernard, “would you like 
me to take you up and hold you for a while?” 

“Oh, yes, please, Mr. Gray, I am so 
tired,” was the whispered answer. 

Bernard wrapped the bed-clothes about 
the little figure and lifted it tenderly in his 
arms. The child looked into his face with 
an affectionate, pleased smile, and then nes- 


2i6 


PASSION FLOWERS 


tied his head contentedly against Bernard’s 
shoulder. 

‘M think I can goto sleep nicely now, dear 
Mr. Gray,” he murmured. 

■ After a little while his eyes closed, with a 
faint sigh, his head lay heavily against Ber- 
nard’s breast, and, still smiling, Bertie fell 
into that sleep to which this world knows no 
awakening. 

Little Bertie’s body was carried to Balti- 
more and laid beside his father in Green- 
mount Cemetery. Mrs. Howard and Fern 
accompanied Bernard Gray on his sad jour- 
ney, and, when all was over and they had 
turned away from the little new-made grave, 
Mrs. Howard, who had forgotten all else in 
her womanly compassion for the lonely, 
desolate man, invited Bernard to come and 
stay with them until he had decided upon 
what he would do. 

have already decided,” he answered, 
after thanking her. ‘‘ I am going abroad. I 
will call before my departure to bid you and 
Miss Howard good-by, and thank you for 
all your kindness to me in this sorrow.” 


AND THE CROSS. 


217 


And he did. It was the second day after 
{he funeral, about eight o’clock in the even- 
ing, when the servant came up and told Fern 
that Mr. Gray was in the drawing-room. 
Mrs. Howard was out, so, with a rapidly 
beating heart, the girl went down alone. He 
was standing with his arm resting on the 
mantel, an old habit of his she remembered, 
and he came forward to meet her, holding 
out his hand, with a faint smile which had 
so much of the pathos of suffering in it. 

*‘You are looking pale and used up,” he 
said, gently, as he held her hand for a few 
moments. /‘You must get back your roses 
and be happy again. My poor little chap 
would not want his dear Miss Fern to be 
miserable.” 

“Don’t!” she cried, with quivering lips. 
“Don’t speak of him. I cannot bear it this 
evening. Let us talk of yourself. Do you 
really intend going abroad?” 

<*Yes”— he had moved back to the man- 
tel, and she stood opposite him. “I could 
not stay here,” he went on. “I am so rest- 


2I8 


PASSION FLOWERS 


less, so restless. I will go to fresh scenes; 
not that I expect to find forgetfulness or 
peace — ” 

He broke off abruptly. She raised her 
eyes and looked at him. A long look at his 
white face, his haggard, weary eyes, the 
deep lines of suffering about his lips, the 
many threads of silver in his fair hair, his 
emaciated form, the stoop which the last six 
months has brought in his shoulders. All 
the fair comeliness of face, strength and fine 
proportion of form, which had first pleased 
and taken captive her girlish fancy, were 
gone. But she loved him only the more 
dearly, with a love which yearned to com- 
fort, and from which all the passion seemed 
purged. 

Quietly she went up to him and laid her 
hand on his arm. 

^‘Bernard,” she said, and no flush of 
shame stained her pale, sweet face as she 
spoke, and her tender, pitying eyes looked 
straight up into his with no consciousness of 
shame either in their clear, sad depths. 


AND THE CROSS. 


219 


Bernard, cannot I bring you comfort, give 
you peace, teach you again to know happi- 
ness?*’ 

•For a few moments he did not reply. His 
eyes, dim with a sudden mist, looked down 
into the sweet face, the tender, pitying eyes. 
Then he spoke in a voice that was not quite 
steady: 

‘^Dear, listen to me. If there were any 
comfort, peace or happiness for me in all 
this wide, wide world, you could give them 
me. But there is not. You are pure and 
true, gentle and womanly; she has lost 
purity and honor, she was always cold 
and cruel, but I must still love her while 
life throbs within me. This is why I shall 
never know peace or happiness, even were 
I selfish enough to bind your sweet, young 
life to mine. But, dear, it is you who have 
kept me from losing faith in the purity and 
womanliness of the sex to which you and 
she belong. I am‘ going out of your life for- 
ever, Fern, and you must forget that such a 
dark shadow ever crossed and marred its 


220 PASSION FLOWERS AND THE CROSS. 


brightness for a time. Only, dear, when 
some day one, so much more worthy of 
your love than I, creeps into your heart, 
then, in your happiness, think of me some- 
times with gentle pity.” 

He paused. She uttered no protest, 
though her heart seemed breaking. She 
had offered him her love and her fresh, 
young life to lift from his, if it could be, the 
shadows which lay so heavily upon it. But 
in vain; therefore, what words were left for 
her to say? 

“And now, dear,” he said, “good-by.” 

He drew her towards him and kissed her 
very tenderly, very reverently. A tear fell 
upon her pale, upturned face, but her own 
eyes were dry. She had wept wildly when 
the coffin-lid shut out forever the little, 
white, dead face of the child she loved, but 
she could find no tears bitter enough as the 
man she loved passed out of her life forever. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


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XVI. 


" When all around grew drear and dark, 

And reason then withheld her ray.” 

“There is a gentleman in the drawing- 
room who wishes to see you, sir.“ 

Mr. Lumley looked up rather impatiently 
from his glass of after-dinner port. 

“ Who is he Did he send his name or 
card.J*” 

“No, sir; he said you did not know him, 
but his business was important, and he 
hoped that you would see him.^* 

“Humph!” muttered Mr. Lumley, impa- 
tiently, “I attend to my business at my 
office.” 

He finished his port, however, and pro- 
ceeded to the drawing-room. George Lum- 
ley was a rich and well-known lawyer in 
New York. He had been a friend of Ber- 
nard Gray^s father, and to him had been 
left the guardianship of his son. 

223 




224 


PASSION FLOWERS 


As he entered the drawing-room a fashion- 
ably-dressed young fellow rose to meet him. 

‘‘Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. 
George Lumley.?’’ he inquired, courteously* 

“ I am he, sir,” was the reply. 

‘'You were, I have understood, Mr. Lum- 
ley, the guardian of Bernard Gray, and I do 
not think I am wrong in supposing that you 
still take a great interest in him?” 

“You are certainly perfectly correct in 
that supposition. I not only take a great 
interest in him, but he is almost like a son 
to me. The greater part of his life was spent 
in this very house.” 

“Have you heard from him lately, Mr. 
Lumley?” was the next inquiry. 

“No, not for several months. He went 
abroad, as perhaps you know, about five 
months ago. Have you come to find out his 
whereabouts? If so, I am sorry to say, I 
can give you no information, as I am per- 
fectly ignorant of them myself.” 

“No,” was the reply, “that is not the 
object of my visit, but I will come to it at 


AND THE CROSS. 


225 


once. My name, Mr. Lumley, is Henry 
Manning. I live in Baltimore, where I have 
frequently met Gray in society. I have 
just returned from abroad, and it was owing 
to my meeting Gray there that I am now 
paying you this unceremonious visit. To 
come to the point rather abruptly, I think it 
incumbent upon any one upon whom Gray 
has a claim to follow him at once and look 
after him very carefully.’' 

‘‘What do you mean?” asked Mr. Lum- 
ley, rather sharply. “Be more definite, 
please.” 

“I mean, Mr. Lumley, that I met Gray 
just before my return from abroad, and that 
1 believe him to be irresponsible for his 
actions — in a word, that his mind is affected.” 

“Will y)u kindly give me your reasons 
for thinking this?” said Mr. Lumley, turn- 
ing a little pale. 

“I will tell you the whole thing, sir. I 
had received a cablegram that my father was 
very ill and to come home at once. I was 
on my way, and was obliged to stop over 


226 


PASSION FLOWERS 


night in Rome. The first person I saw that 
evening on going to the table d’hote was 
Gray. I went up to him at once and spoke. 
At first he looked at me vaguely, as though 
he did not know me, then, with an effort, 
he seemed to remember, and returned my 
greeting, calling me by name. I was shocked 
at his appearance; he looked wretchedly ill, 
and there was a look in his eyes which made 
me think at first that he was drinking, though 
I soon saw that he was not. I sat down be- 
side him and entered into conversation. I 
did not notice anything strange until I hap- 
pened to ask him what he was doing in 
Rome, then a sudden, wild look came into 
his eyes, and he answered, excitedly: ‘ Why, 
man, I am on the track; I shall soon find her 
now, and then — ’ He paused suddenly as 
he caught the surprised look in my eyes, 
and almost instantly recovered himself. I 
spent the greater part of the evening with 
him, and it was only at times that I could 
see he was not himself. After he left me I 
went to the office and made some inquiries 


AND THE CROSS. 


227 


about him. I could see at once that no one 
suspected his condition but myself. I learned 
that he had arrived at the hotel a couple of 
days before and immediately began making 
inquiry regarding a beautiful, golden-haired 
woman and a dark, fine-looking man, (Amer- 
icans,) who had stopped for a few days at 
the hotel a month or so before, registering as 
Mr. and Mrs. Carton. The hotel people had 
been able to tell him nothing about their move- 
ments after leaving there. I felt very much 
worried and undecided as to what I should 
do. I was convinced that Gray was tracking 
Marguerite Loring, with, heaven only knows, 
what awful purpose working in his poor, 
distraught brain. Yet I knew I had no means 
of proving this, and, so cunningly had he 
concealed the condition of his mind, that I 
would be doing a risky thing in attempting 
to interfere with him. I would have taken 
the responsibility of cabling his rela- 
tives or friends, but, unfortunately, I knew 
nothing whatever of his life outside of what 
I had seen in our casual meetings, and, of 


228 


PASSION FLOWERS 


course, what was common gossip in Balti- 
more society — his infatuation for Mrs. Loring. 
I at last made up my mind to find out from 
him in the morning some of his family or 
friends and communicate with them. But 
in the morning he was gone. Whether he 
saw that I suspected something wrong or 
not I do not know, but he had gone, leaving 
no trace behind him. There was nothing 
left for me to do but to continue on my way, 
but as soon as I arrived in New York I made 
inquiries, which caused me to come to you.’’ 

“This is terrible,” said Mr. Lumley, look- 
ing exceedingly worried and distressed. “His 
mad infatuation for Marguerite Loring has 
been the ruin and curse of his life. After her 
elopement he was ill unto death with brain 
fever. But he recovered, and went to Bal- 
timore after her child. He was devoted to 
the boy, and I think it was that which kept 
him from collapsing altogether. Then, un. 
fortunately, while they were at Nahant, and 
Bernard was just beginning to get back his 
health a little, the child was taken ill and 


AND THE CROSS. 


229 


died. Bernard seemed all broken up again; 
but I was glad when he went abroad, think- 
ing he would recover himself with time and 
change of scene. I see I was far from doing 
justice to the strength of his passion for that 
woman. The child dead, he had nothing to 
keep him from unhealthy brooding about 
her, and it has unhinged his mind at last, 
and, as you say, heaven only knows to 
what fearful thing his madness may lead 
him. I will start at once for Rome, and 
from there endeavor to trace him. I can 
only hope I may not be too late.” 

But when Mr. Lumley succeeded in find- 
ing Bernard Gray he was much too late to 
avert the tragedy which a madman’s brain 
had conceived and carried out. 


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CHAPTER XVII. 


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' XVII. 


“Upon the passion flowers, breathing love’s fragrance, 

Death laid his withering hand ’’ 

About twenty miles from Rome, hemmed 
in by the mountains, nestled a small, pic- 
turesque town. A big hotel stood on its 
outskirts, while higher up, on the mountain 
sides, were scattered pretty, white villas. 
The place was a resort, and during the sea- 
son the hotel and villas were crowded with 
people from Rome and other cities. 

In one of the villas a man and woman, 
presumably husband and wife, had dwelt 
for some months in strict seclusion. They 
never came down to the town or to the 
hotel; they were never even seen driving. 

One morning the man stood on the porch, 
which extended across the front of the villa. 
Over this porch great masses of purple pas- 
sion-flowers bloomed, making a fragrant 
frame for his tall form, while the soft breeze 
233 


234 


PASSION FLOWERS 


blew clusters of them against his pale, 
smooth-shaven cheek and dark hair. 

He stood, with folded arms, gazing down 
at the village far below. The Italian 
peasants, in their picturesque dress, were all 
hurrying in one direction, towards the little, 
gray church at the end of the village street, 
for it was Good Friday. The small, pretty 
town was all bathed in sunlight, but where 
he stood the shadow of the mountains lay 
heavily. 

From a window behind him a woman 
stepped softly on to the porch. A loose 
robe of yellow silk fell about her; on her 
breast was a cluster of the purple passion- 
flowers. He seemed to feel her presence, 
for he turned, a swift, tender smile lighting 
up, for p. moment, the dark gloom of his 
face. She moved to his side and, in silence, 
leaned her gold-colored head against him 
caressingly, a faint, dreamy, tender smile 
touching her lips as his strong arm twined 
itself about her. 

Thus they stood, framed by the passion- 


AND THE CROSS, 


235 


flowers. His eyes no longer wandered to 
the village below, but were fixed upon the 
fair loveliness of her face, and there was a 
strange blending of unquenchable passion 
and unutterable suffering in their sombre 
depths. Satiety — that retributive fiend 
which so often follows closely upon the foot- 
steps of passionate guilt — had never pene- 
trated beneath the passion-flowers into the 
white villa. 

“You always wear these,” he said, lightly 
touching the purple flowers on her breast. 
“Why?” 

“They are passion-flowers,” she an- 
swered, “and the sweet fragrance which 
rises from their hearts is like the perfumed 
breath of our love. I never let them wither 
and die upon my bosom, but, when they 
begin to droop, replace them with others 
which are fair, and fresh, and sweet. Dear 
flowers,” touching them caressingly with her 
white, dainty hand, “I love them, for they 
speak to me of you. , When I bury my, face 
in their sweetness, I can feel the clasp of 


236 


PASSION FLOWERS 


your arms about me; their fragrant breath 
is like your kisses.” 

A long, soft sigh left her lips, and her fair 
head lay heavier against his breast. “Dar- 
ling,” he whispered, his thrilling, magnetic 
voice vibrating with an overpowering rush 
of passion and tenderness, “darling, love 
has been our master — stronger, ah, how far 
stronger, than any other power.” 

He bent his lips to her perfumed hair. 
She smiled and sighed again. 

The afternoon sunlight was creeping down 
the mountains. It tried in vain to peep 
under the rose-colored blinds which shaded 
the windows of a room in the villa. Within, 
in the rose-hue, she lay sleeping. Half re- 
clining on a couch, she had fallen asleep, 
her fingers twined about his. 

He sat motionless, his head bowed, the 
old gloom creeping over his face, a dumb 
agony in his eyes, all the more terrible be- 
cause it was always mute. The soft fingers 
relaxed their hold, and her hand fell down- 
ward. He started and turned, then gently 


AND THE CROSS. 


237 


raised the white hand and placed it beside 
her on the couch. Rising, he stood and 
gazed down upon her — the soft, voluptuous 
outline of her form in its loose, yet clinging, 
draperies; the fair, exquisite face; the pas- 
sion-flowers on her bosom gently stirred by 
her soft breathing. 

He bent over and laid his lips softly to 
hers. She stirred a little and smiled, but 
she did not awaken. A cluster of the pas- 
sion-flowers fell from her bosom at his feet. 
Stooping, he picked it up, then, rising, he 
passed out, still holding it. Out under the 
passion-flowers he went, and strode along 
the path leading higher into the mountains. 

Sheltered behind the drooping masses of 
purple bloom, a man, with a haggard, white 
face and sad eyes, glowing with a strange 
light, watched him until the tall form disap- 
peared from sight up the little, winding path. 
Something like a sigh of relief then left the 
watcher's pale lips. After looking cautiously 
around, he stepped into the house and softly 
entered the room where the sleeping woman 


233 


PASSION FLOWERS. 


lay. . He crept up to the. couch and sank on 
his .knees beside it, a great light of rapturous 
joy shining suddenly in the strange, sad 
eyes. - 

. ‘^jMarguerite, Marguerite!”: he whispered,- 
my beautiful, white Marguerite, my love, 
my darling, I have found you at last, at lasti 
I have been searching for you, oh! such a 
long, long, time. And do you know why,; 
dearest.? Because I had resolved to kill you. 
Hush, let me whisper it. I heard them say 
that I was mad, and I fled from them. I do 
not care what they do with me after I have 
taken away your sweet life. Marguerite; 
but I must do that first. You shall be his 
no longer.: All during the long, dark nights 
I lay awake thinking, thinking, always 
thinking, of you in his arms, your head on: 
his breast, his lips seeking yours. I used to 
go mad, then, I think. Marguerite, for I 
would throw myself on the floor and gnaw 
my arms with my teeth until my lips were 
wet with blood. Then, suddenly, one night 
something whispered: 'Find her and kill 


Aj:t> tMe cross. 


' 2 ' 3 ^ 

tier.’ But 1 shuddered at the thought of 
making you suffer, you who always feairod 
suffering and death so much. Then I thought 
of the little vial of Indian poison. One tiny 
drop poured into your ear while you slept, 
as you are sleeping now, and you would 
awaken no more to your lover’s caresses.” 
• Just then she stirred a little and sighed. 
He gave her a wild, startled look. 

■ ‘M must hurry, or she may awaken,’^ he 
muttered. 

He held up the small vial, half full of 
bluish liquid, which he had hidden in his 
hand. With a pressure of his finger he 
broke the golden seal. She slept on, the 
smile still touching her lips. He bent softly 
over her and, gently lifting the gold-colored 
hair from her pretty, pink-tinted ear, poured 
into it a single drop from the vial. Then 
he drew back and watched her, breathing 
heavily. 

One, two, three, four, five minutes passed, 
and then a strange, awful pallor began to 
steal over the beautiful, face from chin to 


240 


PASSION FLOWERS 


brow. The eyelids fluttered once, a long 
sigh came over the whitening lips, gradually 
the white bosom ceased to rise and fall. 
There was a sudden, awful stillness over the 
whole fair form, the fragrant breath had 
ceased to flutter over the lips which still 
smiled, though they were now colorless as 
marble. He laid his hand on her heart, 
crushing the purple passion-flowers which 
rested there. Then a cry of exultation 
broke from his lips. 

*Ht is done!’* he cried aloud. “He will 
come back, but she will be deaf to his tender 
words, cold to his caresses.” 

An awful laugh rang through the room. 

“ Deaf to hi^ tender words, cold to his 
caresses,” he repeated. “Never again will 
those white arms cling about his neck, those 
lovely lips seek his. I can sleep now, Mar- 
guerite, I can sleep in peace.” 

Then suddenly he bent over her, touch- 
ing her soft, gold hair with his thin fingers, 
and began to sob pitifully. 

“Marguerite, my white Marguerite, for- 


AND THE CROSS. 


241 


give me. I had to take your sweet life. I 
could not find peace or rest until I snatched 
you from him. You will forgive me, dar- 
ling? You did not suffer; see! you are 
smiling still. Do not be angry with me, 
darling; I wanted to sleep in the long, dark 
nights. Now, I shall sleep, for you are 
dead, and — and he is — alone. No, you are 
not angry, darling, for you did not suffer. 
The night will soon be here, and I shall 
sleep, oh, so sweetly, and you will be lying 
here smiling, while he weeps and calls to 
you in vain. Oh! I am glad that he will 
weep, that he will weep! for I have wept so 
often. Glad that he will know the torture, 
and the agony, and the longing— that he 
will suffer and moan while I sleep. 

He pressed his lips hungrily to her white, 
cold hand. The fingers, which only one 
short hour ago had been twined so close 
and warm about her lover’s, were already 
stiffening. 

Marguerite, my sweet, white Marguer- 
ite,” he whispered, sobbing again, had 
to do it; forgive.’^’ 


242 PASSION FLOWERS AND THE CROSS. 


And thus they found them — the smiling 
dead woman and the poof madman crouch- 
ing beside her, his thin fingers touching 
caressingly her soft, gold-hued hair. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 


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XVIII. 


“Where neither passions come, nor woes. 

To vex the genius of repose 
On Death’s majestic shore.” 

The fresh, bracing air of the mountains 
cooled the hot brow of the other man as he 
went swiftly along the steep path.' On and 
on he went. The sun crept lower down the 
mountains. He had been walking for hours, 
but was conscious of no fatigue. 

Suddenly he stopped, with a smothered 
cry, for there loomed up in his path, straight 
before him, a life-sized representation of the 
crucifixion, bathed in the crimson light of 
the setting sun. It was a wayside shrine at 
which many a peasant bent his knee as he 
passed up and down the mountain. The 
figure, nailed to the cross, was roughly 
carved in wood, but, in the light of the sun- 
set’s red glow, looked strangely life-like. 

The bruised, emaciated limbs, the pierced 
245 


246 


PASSION FLOWERS 


side, the drooping, thorn-crowned head, and 
sad, sad, face were faithfully, if roughly, re- 
produced. The man, whose symbol that 
cross once had been, stood beneath it with 
bowed head and heavy, anguished eyes. 
The hand, which still unconsciously held 
the passion-flower, was clenched above his 
heart, as though to still the torture of the 
struggle there. 

Then, suddenly, a sob burst from his lips, 
and he fell prostrate at the foot of the cross. 
The agony, so long locked up and silent, 
poured itself out in sobs and moans, which 
echoed weirdly, like the lament of some un- 
resting soul, through the lonely mountain 
passes. With them came a wild plea for 
pardon. 

*‘Have mercy! forgive!” 

Then silence followed. 

The sunset's red glow faded from the 
crucified form, and twilight's gray pall set- 
tled about it, but still the prostrate form at 
the foot of the cross never stirred, 
j Some hours later, those searching found 


AND THE CROSS. 


247 


him there. But he was dead, and beneath 
the cross lay a withered passion-flower. 

END. 








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